


In the Mists of Honor: A Story of Tarth

by Bard_de_Bleu



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Brienne is the Best, Canon Compliant, Family Feels, Gen, Humor, Post - A Game of Thrones, Pre-Canon, Tarth, pre-AGOT
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-06
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2018-08-13 08:45:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 134,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7970410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bard_de_Bleu/pseuds/Bard_de_Bleu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <strong>***NOW COMPLETE***</strong>
</p><p> </p><p><em>A thousand memories came flooding back to Brienne; the fresh smell of mountain flowers, the whispered rush of waterfalls, keeping up with her father’s long strides through the castle corridors.  There were darker memories too, but these were brushstrokes of her past--like shadows that creased the sun-soaked hills.</em>  </p><p>The hidden past of Brienne of Tarth and those who surround her on the Sapphire Isle.  Mostly Brienne-centric with a Jaime/Brienne epilogue in the last three chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Heart Over Kingdom (PROLOGUE)

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to Tarth! 
> 
> This has been a highly ambitious tale to write, one which uses timelines from ASOIAF and details from both ASOIAF and GoT to flesh out a dramatic and imaginative yet realistic history for House Tarth. It’s as much Selwyn Tarth’s story as it is Brienne’s, spanning over 20 years and offering a glimpse of Westeros through the perspective of a minor house before Robert’s Rebellion and ending with Brienne returning home to Tarth after the Great War. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I’ve enjoyed writing it! Roughly a chapter for every year except when noted. Obsessively (but not laboriously) canon compliant. 
> 
> Enjoy, and comments/feedback are always appreciated :-)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ser Goodwin arrives at Tarth, having received a summons from Lord Selwyn Tarth for a mysterious appointment.

 

-

Ser Goodwin

-

“You’ll have your work cut out for you, Ser Goodwin,” Maester Osmynd said as their horses clopped away from the bustling docks.  The port of Tarth thrummed with gull cries, cheerful sailor banter, and shipyard work.  “Lord Selwyn keeps an able guard and company, and there are plenty of young boys at Evenfall itching for some proper training.  Awful thing to grow up on an island in the midst of this long winter with naught to do.”

Ser Goodwin shifted stiffly in his saddle.  The journey from Storm’s End across the Straits of Tarth had been long and rough, and he still felt as if the entire sea sloshed in his stomach.  The odor of low tide did nothing to help his sickness.  The mouth of the harbor was a stinking cesspool of fish guts, still water, and run-off of every slop imaginable.  Poor waste drainage seemed to be the trade-off for the Sapphire Isle’s beauty.  

He lifted his gaze to their destination, high up the western slopes of the island.  Somewhere in that cold blanket of winter fog, the castle sat atop its summit.  His belly lurched at the thought of the steep and rocky ascent.  

“I haven’t got the appointment to his guard yet,” Ser Goodwin said gruffly, trying not to breathe the foul air.  “We’ll see if the Evenstar is willing to take his chances on a hedge knight.”

Of course, he had not always been a hedge knight.  But how Lord Selwyn tracked his whereabouts, Ser Goodwin did not know.  The knight had wandered Westeros for years, lordless.  At best, his name had tumbled into obscurity.  At worst, it tasted sour and graceless on the tongues of those who did remember it.  

“Lord Selwyn wouldn’t have summoned you all this way unless he had good reason to,” Maester Osmynd said, smiling and relaxed in his saddle.  “The Evenstar may be cautious, but he is deliberate.”

He looked almost exactly like every other maester Ser Goodwin had ever met--a older man in long brown robes, a head of grey hair, and metal chains clinking around his neck.  Yet there was a liveliness about the maester that set him apart from the rest.  He was cheerful, and more youthful than his sun-leathered skin suggested.   _Happy servants mean good lords,_ Ser Goodwin thought.

They turned a corner into the market street.  Thinking himself safe from the stench of the harbor, Ser Goodwin released his held breath and inhaled deeply.  The pungent smell of fish guts flooded his nostrils.  He coughed, and breathed into his sleeve.  Maester Osmynd chuckled.  

“Don’t worry, you will get used to it in time.  The Tarth aroma brings even the fiercest warriors to heel.  One could say it is part of our defensive posture.”      

“I wasn’t aware Tarth had need of a defensive posture,” Ser Goodwin said.  “Who would dare strike an island that’s so damned treacherous to get to?  Shipbreaker Bay indeed.”

“Oh, that’s nothing compared to the winds from Essos,” the Maester said, nodding to the East.  

Ser Goodwin followed his gaze to behold the shadowy mountains of Tarth, standing tall and proud as knights—faithfully shielding Storm’s End against the infamous tempests that raged across the Narrow Sea.  The thought of more storms made his stomach lurch again.

“Why did he send you to meet me?  Why not a member of his guard?” Ser Goodwin asked, annoyed by the old man’s cheerfulness and his own weakened constitution.

Maester Osmynd smiled.  His teeth were yellowed and crooked, but it was a kind and honest smile.  

“Why, I suppose his lordship thinks me the best tour guide.  I’ve lived on the Sapphire Isle my entire life, save for my years spent in training at the Citadel.  I know its people and its history better than anyone.  The bloodline of the Tarths goes back thousands of years to the early days of the Andals…”

The old Maester prattled on at length as they wove their way through the rest of the market, nodding in the direction of every citizen they passed, pausing his lecture to greet each of them by name and inquire after the health of their family.   _The old man knows every bloody person on this island_ , Ser Goodwin marveled.  Tarth was not so small that this was a meager accomplishment.  

The cobblestones of the port town soon crumbled into a dirt road.  The knight and maester followed the path as it meandered through vale and forest, sloped upward into the hills.  The air was fresh and sweet now, and very much alive with evening birdsong and babbling brook.  Waterfalls whispered through the thick of the woods.   The wind blew stronger, colder as the trees thinned out and the winter sunlight faded to dusk.

Their horses finally mounted the isle summit.  The castle loomed before them at last.  

“By the Seven,” Ser Goodwin whispered.  

Though not so large or grand as other castles, Evenfall Hall was breathtaking in beauty.  It had been sculpted from the very marble of its cliffside seat, and seemed to rise from the isle’s natural geology.  A fine, silvery mist bathed the walls and towers, which rose high into the night.  Proud Tarth banners of sunbursts and crescent moons hung from the sides of the portcullis, and rippled gently in the breeze.  The true moon overhead was a bright sliver, casting cool light over the castle.  Ocean waves crashed lustily on the rocks far below.

“Tarth was its own kingship, once upon a time.”  Maester Osmynd said.  “Hasn’t been for hundreds of years, but the lords still style themselves as Evenstar.“

“And what of the little Evenstar?” Ser Goodwin asked as they approached the lifting gate.  He reached inside his cloak to touch the gift he brought, making sure it was still there.  

“Oh, yes—Galladon,” the Maester said.  “Only four years old but a right hellion.  He’ll grow out of it--tall as a tree just like his father.   And Lady Helaena is now heavy with her second child--she’ll soon bear Lord Selwyn another strong lad, from the way she’s carrying.”

“Lady Helaena...she’s of Targaryen descent, is she not?”

“Yes, but one with no royal claims--her father was Prince Duncan."

"The prince who chose heart over kingdom," Ser Goodwin mused, understanding well enough.  Prince Duncan was the first-born son of Aegon V and once heir to the Iron Throne, but forfeited his birthright to marry Jenny of Oldstones--his true love, and a peasant girl.  But fate was cruel to him and Jenny--they perished at Summerhall, the Targaryen summer residence destroyed in a great fire some 20 years ago. 

"Lady Helaena was one of the few who survived," the master continued.  "I remember when she first came to Evenfall an orphan, poor little thing."

Ser Goodwin wondered what connection the Targaryens might have had with the Tarths that a daughter of theirs would be sent to live on the Sapphire Isle, even if she was an orphan.  Before he could ask, the portcullis groaned open and Maester Osmynd changed the subject, lecturing on Evenfall Hall’s construction as they entered.  Savory smells wafted from the kitchens, and Ser Goodwin realized that his stomach had stopped its churning. It now rumbled healthily with hunger.

_Thank the gods._

-

“I trust Maester Osmynd gave you a thorough lecture on the history of Tarth,” Lord Selwyn said, pouring himself a cup of wine.

Ser Goodwin was surprised to dine with the Evenstar tonight.  It was more customary for a new knight to share his first meat and mead with the master-at-arms and the rest of the castle guard in the great hall.  Yet here they sat, just the two of them in the Evenstar’s council chamber, supping on a simple dinner of fresh fish, bread, and cheese.  

“Indeed he did,” Ser Goodwin replied, reaching for the pitcher.  “Very generous of him.”

The table they supped at was oak, and featured a relief carving of the entire Seven Kingdoms.  Yet the carving was old and worn, and rough woodwork to begin with.  Some bits were falling away from the Westerlands coast where Ser Goodwin sat.   _Needs attention,_ he thought.

Lord Selwyn sat at the Stormlands coast, Tarth in front of his plate.  He was about ten years Ser Goodwin’s junior, perhaps five-and-thirty.  Yet he was formidable in appearance and stature as any seasoned lord.  Even sitting down, he was tall-- _very_ tall, with a strong build.   _Would have made an excellent knight_ , Ser Goodwin thought.  He had wavy golden hair that fell down to his shoulders, and short coarse whiskers.  Although his countenance was serene and inscrutable, the crease between his brows and the thin lines at his mouth and temples revealed that the Evenstar was a lord given to mirth and sternness in equal measure.  Ser Goodwin liked that.

“I’m afraid our history is not quite as fascinating as Maester Osmynd thinks it,” Lord Selwyn said, his sapphire-blue eyes twinkling.  “But you’re best to keep him close during your time here.  He knows every face on Tarth, including babes in arms.  He even knows most the dogs that litter this isle.”  

“He’s a good man,” Ser Goodwin agreed.  “And he told me that you soon expect another child.  My congratulations.”

Lord Selwyn smiled, but something twitched in his serene expression.  “It is not such a difficult pregnancy as her first…” he said, his deep voice faltering.  He cleared his throat.  “But the maester has ordered bedrest.  Helaena’s time is near.”  

Ser Goodwin sensed the Evenstar's fear.  _His love for his wife runs deep._  The birthing bed was a woman’s battlefield and not much could be said to soothe the matter.  The knight sat silently, then reached into his cloak and pulled out a wooden toy dragon.

“For your son Galladon.”

Lord Selwyn took the toy and turned it over in his large hands, tracing the spread wings and extended tail, the open mouth.

“What fine work is this,” he said, admiring it.  “You made it?”

“My father was a woodworker,” Ser Goodwin said.  “He taught me to wield a carving knife long before I was big enough to wield a sword.”

“He taught you well,” Lord Selwyn said.  He set the dragon next to Tarth on the map as if to guard the isle from harm.  “Perhaps you can help me to carve a new Tarth.”

“It’s more than a new Tarth you need, my lord,” Ser Goodwin said, nodding down at the oak table.  “I’d rework the entire map if it please you, it’s in dire need.”

Lord Selwyn frowned, fitting a fallen chunk of coastline back into the Stormlands.

“Could use a bit of work,” he admitted, glancing back at Ser Goodwin.  “As to your skill with a sword.  Songs have traveled far of your honor and valor in the Stepstones.”

“Are they still singing about that?  Such a long time ago.”

“I also fought in the wars.  As a squire, back when I fancied myself a knight.”

“Really?  Yet you returned to Tarth?”

“My father was ailing,” Lord Selwyn said, placing his fork and knife in his plate with a gentle clink _._  “I realized it was a greater, more honorable thing to serve and protect my people.  It was my duty.”  

Ser Goodwin knew it was no easy thing to forget boyhood dreams of becoming a knight, even for the heir of a noble house.  He looked to Lord Selwyn and raised his cup.  

“To _duty_ , my lord.”

Lord Selwyn half smiled, and lifted his own cup.  “To duty.”

They both drank deeply.  Lord Selwyn put down his cup, studying his guest.  

“So tell me, Ser Goodwin,”  he said. “How does a decorated warrior of the Ninepenny fall into the career of a hedge knight?”

Ser Goodwin stared at the Evenstar for a silence.  Lord Selwyn tried again.

“You were offered an appointment to Aerys’ Kingsguard.  Why did you not take it?”

Ser Goodwin blinked.  His eyes fell to his plate.  He picked at a fish bone with his fork.

“I’m sure you’ve heard those songs as well, my lord.”

“But not from you.”

“My mind was rotten from battle-sickness.  I watched my best friend die in the Stepstones.”

“I’ve seen battle-sickness in the faces of many men, I do not see it in you.”

Lord Selwyn’s sapphire eyes bored into the knight’s face.  The room fell so silent, Ser Goodwin could hear the candleflame's flicker.

“What was the real reason why you could not swear yourself to King Aerys?”

Ser Goodwin sighed.

“To this day, I do not know, my lord.  I tried, but my knee would not bend.  My lips would not utter the words.  I thought it was some dark magic, but it was my unwilling heart.  I felt...somehow I knew..."

"That he would give you commands you could not obey?" Lord Selwyn said quietly.

"Yes," Ser Goodwin said.  "And King Aerys was insulted, embarrassed beyond measure--so he made certain I never took anyone else’s vows.”  

“You mean that he made certain that the false story of your battle-sickness spread like wildfire," Lord Selwyn said.  "Until your name was burnt into dishonor.”

Ser Goodwin could only nod in reply.  It was all true--too true, and too painful.  He had honored his heart's instinct, but traded his reputation as an honored knight.  

“To the point, then,” Lord Selwyn said, pushing his plate away and dabbing at the corners of his whiskered mouth.  “You received my message.”  

“Aye, my good lord.”

Ser Goodwin remembered that bleak morning along the Kingsroad.  His horse had starved to death, and without one he had no hope of making it south.  For the first time, he leaned against the snowy hedges and prayed that the heavens take him.  It was then that a white horse cut through the freezing fog, its rider bearing a message sealed with blue wax sunbursts and crescents.   _An appointment at Evenfall Hall awaits you_.

“I paid the man a great deal of gold to find you,” Lord Selwyn said.

Not many lords would go through such trouble for a hedge knight, Ser Goodwin knew.  He so had many questions, and struggled which to ask first.

“To be offered a guardsman position at a noble house is a great honor, my lord,” he started.  “But why do I sup with you tonight?  Not your master-at-arms?”

“Well, my master-at-arms is only newly arrived.”

“Who is it?”

Lord Selwyn smiled.  “You.”

Ser Goodwin blinked in disbelief.   _“Me?”_

The lord nodded.

“But then--who has been performing master at arms duties until now?”

“I have,” Lord Selwyn said.  “For ages.  I quite enjoy it, actually, and was loathe to give it up...but alas, I must free myself for my other duties, including tending to my growing family.  Trust me, my wife is very glad that you’re here.”

Ser Goodwin still sat stunned, at a loss for words.  

“You will be charged with organizing the soldiers and guardsmen, reviewing our defense plan, coordinating strategy and tactics with Storm’s End.  You will be castellan in my absence.”  

“Castellan?”

“I will also charge you with the personal training of my children, when they’re old enough.  In fact,  I should like to hold a tourney in honor of Galladon’s next name day.”

“A _tourney?”_

“Far too long since Tarth’s last tourney.  They used to be the most anticipated events in all the Stormlands.”

“I am honored, my lord, only...” his voice trailed off.

“Only?”

“I still don’t understand," Ser Goodwin said.  "Mainland lords see in me a weak man of cowardice, of tarnished honor.  Yet you see something else.  Why?”

The Evenstar stared at him for a silence.  He drew a long breath and rose from his chair, pacing to the arched west-facing window.   _Tall as a tree, indeed._   Moonlight glowed upon his long golden hair, his long face with bold features as he looked out to sea.

“I am above all things a Tarth.  And a Tarth learns to read the sky like words and listen to the sea like songs.  A Tarth tastes a storm on the wind long before it reaches the shore.”  

He gazed back at Ser Goodwin with eyes calm as still water.

“Not only are you seasoned in battle, you read men well. You read them the way that I read storms."

 _He knows the madness of King Aerys,_ Ser Goodwin thought. _Somehow, he knows._

“Upon my last visit to King’s Landing, I witnessed Aerys order a knight’s tongue torn from his mouth with hot pincers,"  Lord Selwyn said lowly.  "All because the man uttered a truth the king did not like.”

A chill coursed through Ser Goodwin's veins.  Under different circumstances, he knew that he might have been that tongueless knight.  

"Let us pray his temperament does not worsen to infect the kingdom," Ser Goodwin said. But history knew such kings whose rule was stained in blood and tyranny--Maegor the Cruel was one.  It could happen again.

"The gods may not be able to help us.  Every time a Targaryen is born, they flip a coin,” Lord Selwyn said grimly.  His face darkened and his shoulders tightened.  Ser Goodwin sensed there was something else that troubled him.  Finally, it dawned on him.

_Only four years old but a right hellion._

“Your son has Targaryen blood,” he tested.

Lord Selwyn inhaled sharply. “He’s just a child.”

For what seemed an age, there was no sound but for the distant roar of the ocean. Ser Goodwin looked at the wood dragon toy, still guarding Tarth on the map. Suddenly it looked sinister.

“He’s just a child,” Lord Selwyn repeated. “But I’m not putting my children’s fate into the hands of the gods. I need mentors for them. They need to know what good is—what true honor is.  And I need Tarth to be battle-ready, when the time comes.”

“And what of your honor, my lord?” Ser Goodwin said. “Your reputation? When it becomes knowledge that I serve you?”

“King Aerys has worse to worry about aside from whatever old grudge he holds against you,” he said, then smiled thoughtfully.  “In any case, I’ll say that the fresh sea air of Tarth has cleared your mind well enough to serve my needs.”

“Aye, the sea air I sampled this morning was fresh enough,” Ser Goodwin laughed.

“Well, then?” Lord Selwyn asked, a note of anticipation in his voice.

Ser Goodwin stared dumbly at first, and then remembered himself.  It had been so long, after all.  He rose, circled the table, and removed his sword from his hilt. He bent his knee, then lay the sword at the Evenstar’s large boots.

“I am yours, my lord,” he said. “Your liege man. I will shield your back and keep your counsel and give my life for yours, if need be. I swear it by the old gods and the new.”

Lord Selwyn towered over the knight.

“And I vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth and meat and mead at my table, and pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you to dishonor.  I swear it by the old gods and the new.  Arise.”

Ser Goodwin rose to look his new lord in the eye.  For the first time in years, he felt his heart swell with pride.

The door groaned open.  Startled, Ser Goodwin gripped the hilt of his sword tightly.

A handmaid entered the council chamber, her face aglow with sweat. “My lord,” she said hurriedly. “It’s the Lady Helaena, my lord, she has just—oh, I’m so sorry my lord, it was over and done so quickly that we didn’t have time to summon you--”

Lord Selwyn stood frozen. “My wife?” he asked, a tremor in his voice.

“—has just given birth, my lord, and she is very well,” the handmaid said, a wide smile breaking over her face. “You have a daughter now, my Lord. A healthy baby girl.”

-

Selwyn

-

He ran down the corridors, and up the spiral staircase of the west tower--taking three steps at a time.  Of course, it had to be tonight of all nights.  Of course, the lord’s apartments had to be clear on the other side of the keep from his council chamber.  Heart thumping in his chest, he burst open the door.   

Helaena sat upright in bed, her nut brown hair slicked dark with sweat.  She had a bundle at her bare breast and a healthy pink glow on her freckled cheeks.  Her violet eyes shone soft, and she smiled proudly at Selwyn.  He breathed a sigh of relief.

She was all right.

The scene was nothing like Galladon’s birth.  She was white as a ghost then--weak,  trembling, and unaware.  The bed was soaked in blood, and Maester Osmynd said there was nothing more that they could do for her but pray.  Selwyn had never been so frightened in his entire life—not even in battle—and did not sleep for two nights.  He lay next to her then, holding her hand and fearing the worst.  She stopped breathing altogether for what seemed an age on the third day.  But, against all odds, she regained her strength.  

Now he stepped to the bed and sat gently, draping his arm close around his wife’s shoulders.  She leaned the bundle toward him, nipple still in the babe’s mouth.  The babe's eyes opened, and she looked right up at Selwyn.  Bright sapphire blue--just like his own eyes.  He felt a burst of love and tenderness, and lifted a hand to stroke his new daughter’s small head.  It was warm and soft, golden blonde strands still damp from the womb.

“Isn’t she beautiful?” Helaena said.  

“She’s perfect,” Selwyn whispered.

“She looks like you.”

He smiled.  It was true.  Galladon had his mother’s violet eyes, the white-blonde hair of his more famous Targaryen ancestors.  _And their fiery nature._  Thanks gods he was in bed right now.

“How are you feeling now my love?”  

“Refreshed!” Helaena said.  “It was quite efficient--she just popped out like a watermelon seed.”

Selwyn laughed and kissed her hair.  

“I only wish I had been here for you.”

“Better that you weren’t.  Your worrying makes me nervous.”

“I’ve half a mind to think you plotted it for when you knew I’d be on the other side of the keep.”

“Don’t be silly,” she laughed.  But there was a small smirk upon her face.  

“What shall we name her?” Selwyn asked.  

Duncan was the name they had planned for the son they thought they would have--in memory of Helaena’s father, of course, but also of Selwyn's grandfather.   The grandfather whose identity he had sworn to keep secret.  

 _"Don’t worry, Selwyn, no one will suspect--and it’s a wonderful tribute besides,"_ Helaena had reassured him.

In any case, it was no matter now.  For here they were, holding a baby girl, and no feminine form of Duncan to give her.

“I’ve always liked the name Brienne,” Helaena said.

Just then, their daughter opened her mouth in a tiny, pink yawn.  Selwyn smiled, and Helaena cooed and held the babe closer, kissing her head.  

“Brienne it is.”

For a while they enjoyed this fleeting moment together--this quiet glow.  Helaena drifted off, and Selwyn took their child in his arms.  He gazed lovingly into the bundle and wondered at how she would not even be here had it not been for a fateful day some 20 years ago.  He closed his eyes, and remembered.

-

_The year was 259AC.  Selwyn was 14._

_A ship lay waiting for him and his parents, there in the harbor of Storm’s End.  The Tarths had cut their mainland visit short by a few weeks; in the wake of a great fire at Summerhall tensions were high, and it was best to return home until more was known._ _Just as they three were boarding, a woman’s cry cut through the crowd--ragged and shrill._

_“Wait! Tarth! Wait!”_

_Selwyn turned, then looked down.  A tiny and haggard woman, dwarflike, stood before him on the dock.  She had a massive, unnatural hump on her back, more than twice her own size.  Holding her hand was a small girl of no more than five years old, brown hair mussed and face buried in the woman’s hip._

_“Come along, Selwyn,” his mother Lady Tarth urged, glancing to the beggar and back to her son.  “We need to board now.”_

_“But the woman has a young girl with her.  They look like they need help.”_

_“Listen to your mother,” said Selwyn's father the Evenstar._

_“I'm a squire," Selwyn protested.  "It is my duty help and protect the innocent!”_

_The old hag cackled._

_“I see your son has the knightly qualities of his grandfather.”_

_Lord Tarth turned, slowly._

_“What?”_

_“You heard me the first time,” the hag said.  “But we’ve come a long way from Summerhall and need your help, my lord.”_

_“No one survived the fire.  Besides, you can’t have come all the way from Summerhall--you would have had to walk all night and day.”_

_“We did walk all night and day.”_

_The hag lifted her skirt to show her blistered feet.  The girl had horrendous sores on her tiny bare feet as well, all covered in dirt and dried blood._

_“What do you want?” the Evenstar asked, digging into his coin purse.  “Money?  How much?”_

_“No money,” the hag scoffed.  “This young child is Helaena Targaryen, daughter of Prince Duncan and Jenny of Oldstones.  Open your eyes, girl."_ _With coaxing, she did.  They were wet and puffy with tears--but clearly the violet of old Valyria. "_ _Her dear parents perished in the fire.  You’ve been named her protectors.”_

_"Impossible.  Why would that be?" Lady Tarth asked._

_“We have no connections with anyone who perished at Summerhall," the Evenstar affirmed._

_“Are you so sure of that, Lord Tarth?”_

_And then the hag removed the heavy drapes over her back, revealing the largest shield Selwyn had ever seen.  It was heavy oak, painted with a falling star above an elm tree._

_The Evenstar was stunned silent for a heartbeat._

_"Who are you?" he burst.  "Some kind of witch?”_

_“Some call me a woods witch, aye,” she said.  “But I was Jenny’s friend.  Just like Ser Duncan the Tall was a friend of Egg, Prince Duncan’s royal father.  He threw his shield to me before he perished, bid me give it to you so you watch over the girl.”_

_The Evenstar stood frozen to place, transfixed by the witch's tale.  "Did he say anything else?"_

_“This is complete madness,” Lady Tarth said, bewildered.  “I don’t understand.”_

_“It's complicated.  There are things you don’t know...Selwyn!”_

_The Evenstar’s son had already crouched down to pick up the small girl.  He swung the shield over his back and climbed back over the gangway to the Tarth-bound ship._

_“Selwyn--”_

_“She needs a home!”_

_The old hag cackled again._

_“As I said, your son’s much like his grandfather.  Do good deeds, ask questions later.”_

_Selwyn did his best to soothe the girl during the journey over the waves.  She had a fear of not only fire, but any light at all.  Even the moon frightened her, and he had to assure her constantly that it would not crack open to spill fiery dragons._

_When her sobs had quieted and she finally fell asleep, he heard the arguing of his parents in the lord’s cabin.  They often argued; theirs had never been a happy marriage.  Yet tonight was different._

_“Why did she give you this shield?” his mother said.  “What are you not telling me about who you are?”_

_“I can’t tell you,” his father said.  “I can’t tell anyone.”_

_But finally,  Lord Tarth did tell someone.  It was a full 15 years later when he told his son, on his deathbed._ _And so Selwyn learned that Ser Duncan the Tall, knight of legends. was his grandfather._

_“But then…I should be a knight, after all” Selwyn pressed.  “It is in my blood.”_

_“What’s past is past--you have Tarth blood by your mother, Selwyn, and that is what matters.  You must rule the Sapphire Isle, establish a legacy of your own.  You must be Lord Tarth.”_

_-_

When Selwyn opened his eyes, night had deepened.  The crescent moon sailed across the sky on a ship of clouds. He sighed.  Under that same moon, and somewhere far beyond the safety of Tarth, lay all the knightly adventures he had forsaken.  

A winter chill rushed in.  The warm bundle stirred in his arms.  He held her tighter, fixed her blanket, and closed the shutters.

He looked over at Helaena.  She slept peacefully, nestled deep in pillows with her hair fanned all around her.  He smiled, and stroked a fine strand.  Who cared for knightly adventures.  He had this.  If he had once struggled to come to terms with his responsibilities, he knew them now because of love.  And whatever storms lay on the horizon for the kingdom, they would not come for his family.  He swore it.     


	2. A Herald Gull

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A rare bird, a Tarth tourney, and some unexpected news.

-

Selwyn

-

A flash of light caught Selwyn’s eye.  

He gazed upward, and drew in a deep breath of reverence.  A great white bird glided gently, sweeping high above the roaring tourney grounds of Tarth.  Its silver wingtips winked in the sunlight.

“A herald gull,” said Helaena, leaning into him.  Her violet eyes sparkled bright, following the bird’s graceful arc across the sky.  

Selwyn smiled, and laid his broad hand on his wife’s narrow hand peeking out of her sleeve.  She was beautiful in her rose silk dress embroidered with gold sunbursts and silver crescents, a perfect complement to Selwyn’s azure livery with the Tarth badge on his breast.  Her nut-brown hair was gathered in a long thick braid, and the wind swept strands loose across her freckled cheeks.

“A sign of good luck,” he said.

Luck had favored the Tarths as of late.  They sat side by side in the lord’s pavilion, surveying the events of the first day of the first tourney at the Sapphire Isle in years.  White sailcloth tents dotted the shoreline, sheltering the hundreds of spectators who had traveled from all over the Stormlands for the celebration of honor and chivalry.  Even spring had come to honor Tarth.  The sun broke through a few hours a day now, and today it shone boldly.  

The event also marked Galladon’s fifth nameday.  Selwyn watched his son play at his feet with a wood dragon toy handcarved by Ser Goodwin.  The boy’s features favored his Targaryen ancestry; he had white-blond hair, pale skin, and violet eyes.  Yet they were not his mother’s eyes, which were sunny and bright like mountain flowers.  His were dark and flickering like swirling storms.   _Like his nature_ , Selwyn thought.  Yet today, the boy was calm.  Every now and then he got up to peek into the cradle of his baby sister, as if to make sure she were still there.  Selwyn thanked the gods his son was on good behavior for the highly public event.

The horse race along the sandy coastline had just finished.  To no one’s surprise, the event was championed by young Lord Robert Baratheon, Warden of the Stormlands.  He was lean and muscled as a maiden's fantasy, all glowing with sweat and sea spray as he dismounted.  He laughed and accepted a horn of ale from his squire, and slapped Ser Goodwin on the back.

“You’d better be careful, or Robert will try and steal our master-at-arms,” Helaena teased.

Selwyn laughed and squeezed her hand gently.  “I don’t expect Ser Goodwin would allow it,” he said.

When he first met Ser Goodwin, the knight looked tired and gaunt—dressed in torn, blackened leathers and boots with worn heels.  Now, a year later, he had regained his muscle and health.  He was big and burly again, and donned new leathers and fine blue armor.  The knight ascended the steps of the lord’s pavilion, his steel-grey eyes shimmering proud.  Though he was muscular in body, his facial features were small and neat.  A thin battle scar crossed from temple to jawline, and his short-clipped hair was ruddy brown flecked with grey.  

“My lord, my lady,” Ser Goodwin said, bowing to Selwyn and then Helaena.  “If it please you, we will commence the next event.  The boats are ready.”  

Selwyn nodded to Helaena.  She leaned forward, smiling, and brought her hands together for a single clap.  The crowd roared, and participants scrambled to the small wooden boats with hulls brightly painted after Stormland house sigils.  They dragged them to the water.

Helaena cheered for House Tarth, laughing and clapping.  Selwyn smiled.

Within the slice of a moment, the sun disappeared behind the clouds.  A shadow fell over the sea, turning the sapphire waters a dusty shade of green.

Selwyn looked around.  The crowd of spectators still laughed and cheered.  But something felt wrong.  Something felt missing.

“Where is Galladon?” he asked.

Helaena knit her brows, scanning the grounds.  Her eyes caught on a point.

“Galladon!” she cried.

Selwyn followed her line of sight to the banquet tent, halfway between the crowd and the shore.  A small child with white-blonde hair was wildly swinging a wood sword.  The crowd’s cheer died away as the distressed cries of a gull pierced the air, and Selwyn’s heart went cold.   

He didn’t know how he got there so fast.

“STOP!” he roared, tearing the sword from his son’s grasp and throwing it on the ground.

Galladon pointed a finger of accusation at the pecked-apart meats, pies, and honey cakes on the table, then to the animal on the ground.  

 _“Bird!”_ he shouted.

Selwyn knelt down next to the mess of feathers and blood.

The herald gull lay on its side, alive but broken.  Its eyes flashed at Selwyn like sparked flint.  He knew it would not fly again.  

“This is not just any bird, it is a _herald gull_ ,” he hissed at Galladon.  “Rarest of birds, and _sacred_ to Tarth.”

The boy looked down in shame.

Selwyn cradled the gull in his arms and angled away from crowd.  He held his breath and thrust a dagger into the bird’s breast, only releasing when its black eyes went waxy.  

He turned around.  He handed the bird to Galladon.

“You will hold it for the rest of the day,” he said sharply.  “When we retire, you will bury it with Maester Osmynd’s help.”

Galladon took the large gull in his arms.  It was nearly half as big as he was.  He shuffled through the silent, parting crowd, leaving a trail of red-stained feathers in his wake.  He quietly took his seat next to his mother in the pavilion.  She looked on in horror, then turned to Selwyn with a face of worry.

_Is this necessary?_

Selwyn held her gaze.  

_Yes._

He turned back to the crowd, where every eye was fixed on him.  The sailors held onto their boats, half in water, half on shore.  Ser Goodwin stood waiting for his Lord’s command to resume the events.

“Let the games continue,” Selwyn announced.  At his clap, the sailors tightened their sails and raced for the shoals.

He sat down.  Helaena looked nervously to Galladon, the dead gull in his lap.  The boy sulked.

“Well-played, Selwyn.  That’s a lesson the lad will remember!” Lord Robert laughed as he sat down next to Selwyn.  Wet black curls clung to his forehead.  He drank deeply from his horn, and nodded to the race.

“Wouldn’t be a proper Tarth tourney without your bloody sailboats, now would it?”  

“We have a responsibility to the Stormlands to prove our prowess in the art of sail, my lord,”  Selwyn said.  “The Ironborn and the Redwynes aren’t the only sailors in Westeros, after all.”

Robert grunted in agreement, taking another drink from his horn.

“Well done on your race, Lord Robert,” Helaena said.  

Selwyn felt relief to hear his wife’s gentle voice again, and gazed at her with pride.  She now held the blanketed baby in her arms.  Their daughter was awake, her sapphire blue eyes wide open and looking all around.  He smiled fondly at her.

“It’s so good you were able to join us,” Helaena continued.  “We know it’s a terrible journey across the straits.”  

Her words paid subtle tribute to Robert’s parents, who had perished in Shipbreaker Bay not three years before.  But if Robert quivered at the memory, he didn’t show it.

“Your Evenstar here knows I’d cross hell and high water for a good tourney,” he said gruffly.  “Tourneys are good for training.  They’re good for morale.  They breed good warriors.”

Something thudded against Robert’s shin.  

“What in Seven Hells--”  He lifted his leg away from the bloody, feathered corpse at his feet.

 _“Galladon!”_ Heleana reprimanded.

Selwyn reached down for the gull, and put it back in his son’s lap.  “You will hold it, not throw it!”

“The little devil,” Robert chuckled.  “He has Targaryen blood or I’m the king.”

Galladon glared at him over the feathers.

“What’s the matter child?   _Gull_ got your tongue?”  Robert laughed at his own joke.  

“He still doesn’t speak much,” Helaena said, wiping a smudge of blood from her son’s face as he strained away from her.  “But he understands everything.  The maester says he’s seen it in other children, and they usually grow out of it.”

Laughter erupted from the middle of the crowd.  They all looked up.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Robert muttered.

A small boy with Robert’s coal-black hair and long eyelashes pranced toward them.  The boy had fastened ribbons of blue, silver and gold to his shoulders and they fluttered in the wind as he danced in front of them.

“Look at me!” he said.  “Look at me, I’m a wizard!”  The boy twirled, throwing flowers in the air.

“Enough of that, Renly,” Robert snapped, ripping the ribbons from the child’s back.  “You’ll make a damned fool of your lord and older brother before the day is done.”  

Renly saw the baby in Helaena’s arms and smiled shyly.

Galladon narrowed his eyes at the black-haired boy who inched closer to his mother and sister.  He clutched the gull as if to launch it again, but Helaena held him back with one arm.

“It’s all right, Galladon,” Helaena said, then looked to the black-haired boy.  “Do you want to say hello, Renly?”

She tilted the bundle toward him.  The boy leaned in to tuck a flower into the girl’s blanket, then kissed her on her blonde head.  She cooed.

“What a little charmer!” Helaena laughed.

Robert rolled his eyes.

“Charming, but that’s the extent of it,” he groaned.  “I brought him here to try and instill some roughness in the boy.  I’ve a mind to bring him back when he comes of age.  Mayhap Ser Goodwin will make a man of him.”  

Robert looked again at the bundle in Helaena’s arms.

“Your daughter.  What’s her name again?  Betha?”

“Brienne.”

“ _Brienne_ , that’s it.  She’ll have flowered by the time Renly comes of age, won’t she?”

Helaena frowned, and held the baby closer to her breast.

“Keep up these tourneys, and I may want to join our houses,” Robert said, nodding to the race.  “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go find a bush to piss in.”

As he left, Selwyn looked over at Helaena, his eyebrows raised.

“Don’t,” Helaena warned.  

“It _would_ be a very good match,” Selwyn said.

Helaena shot him a chiding look.  

“I’ll _not_ be planning betrothals before she can walk, Selwyn.  As long as she is my daughter, she will marry for love and nothing less.”  She smiled into the bundle and kissed it.  “Won’t you, sweetling?”  

The crowd cheered as sailors began to arrive back on the shore.  Ser Endrew finished first under Tarth sails, and Selwyn laughed and clapped heartily for pride of his house.  Ser Goodwin readied the grounds for the next event—melee.

“It’s going rather well, isn’t it?” he said, leaning over to Helaena.  

But his wife was frozen and staring at Galladon, who now plucked feathers from the dead gull with great fervor.  He pulled them out by the fistful, letting them propel to the ground in swirl of red and grey.   

Helaena glared fiercely at Selwyn.  Selwyn opened his mouth, but nothing came out.  He sighed and leaned his head into his palm, away from his wife and children.

Lord Robert returned, holding a wineskin.  He looked at the Tarth family and chuckled.

“I could learn a thing or two from you, Selwyn,” he said, sitting down.  “I know I’ll have a few hellions to call my own soon enough.  Why, when I make Lyanna Stark a Baratheon, she’ll birth me a whole pack of stubborn wolf-stags.”  

Robert drank from his wineskin, and wiped his hand across his beard.  “Ah, Lyanna,” he breathed out, and smiled. “There are princes and knights come from all parts of the world to joust and tourney for her love.  But she is mine.  She is mine.”

Bloody feathers still floated to the ground.  The gull was almost naked.  Selwyn brought his hands to his face, rubbing his temples.  From the corner of his eye, he saw Maester Osmynd approaching the pavilion.  A small rolled parchment was in his hand.

Selwyn glanced at the wax seal.  A grey wolf.  

“Give it to Lord Robert,” he said with a wave of his hand.  He felt ill and couldn’t bother.  Besides, any news from the Starks was likely for Robert.  They must have known he was here.

“From Winterfell,” Robert laughed as he took and unfurled the parchment.  He looked around in amusement.  “We were just talking of Winterfell!”

He read it.  The smile faded.  He stood.

Selwyn’s chest clenched.  

“What news, my lord?  Lord Robert?”

“Lyanna.”

Robert crushed the parchment, his face now red with fury.

 _“LYANNA!”_   he howled into the wind.  

 

***

 

“This is madness,” Helaena murmured, leaning against the bed.

Selwyn was at his wardrobe, putting on leathers, belts, and armour as quickly as he could.  What he’d worn at the tourney earlier was merely for lording, not battle.

“Winterfell marches on King’s Landing already,” he said, fastening a holster to his hip.  “I’ve commanded our ships to set sail at first light.”  

Helaena pinched nervously at the sleeves of her dress.  She was tall and slender, but worry made her look small.  

“When will you return?”

“A month,” Selwyn said.  “Two months.  Perhaps a year.  I don’t know.”  

“And what will you do?  Go to war with the Targaryens?”

He looked at his wife.  Her dark hair and tender heart often made Selwyn forget that she was half Targaryen herself.

“Do you fear for them?” he asked.

“No,” she said.  “Of course not.  They’re not my family.  They have never been my family.”  

She walked over and hooked her arms under his, reaching her hands across his broad chest.

“You’re my family.”  

Selwyn did not give.  She dropped her arms.

“Why do you embroil us in this mess?  Tarth has nothing to do with it.”

Selwyn donned his mail.

“I am Robert Baratheon’s sworn bannerman.  He received news at _my_ tourney that his betrothed was abducted.  Half the Stormlands was there today.  What bloody good is a tourney if I don’t answer his call when he sits right next to me?”  

Helaena huffed.

“I don’t even want to think about tourneys.”

Selwyn sighed.  As much as he tried not to turn and look at her, he had to.  He saw the disappointment in her eyes. 

“Then don’t,” he said, turning away again.

“It was disgraceful, what you made him do.  Really, Selwyn—a dead bird and blood all over him on his nameday.  He’s just a _boy_.”

“It was more than a dead bird, Helaena—it was a herald gull.  It is unlucky to harm them.”

“Then why did you kill it?  We might have nursed it back to health--it could have been a pet for Galladon.  He could have learned to care for it.”

“Herald gulls aren’t pets.  It would have been a life of dishonor for the animal.”

“So instead you dishonored your son.”

Selwyn bowed his head in frustration. He rested his forearm against the stone wall, still facing away from her.  

“How can you be so rational, and yet so bloody superstitious?” she said, a tremor in her voice.  “You think he’s like _them_ , don’t you?  That the gods flipped the coin and lost?”

He said nothing.  

“Well they didn’t,” she said with insistence. “Galladon is a good boy.  He’s just different.  He needs time.  What you did only made it worse.”

He stole a glance at her again.  She still wore that look of utter disappointment on her face.  

“I am sorry,” he said through clenched teeth.

The apology washed up on Helaena like water on a wall.

“You are not.”

Selwyn pounded his fist on the stone.  “Can I do no right by you tonight, my lady?” he shouted, fully turning to face her.

Helaena stared at him.  Her chin shook.  

Selwyn rushed to her. 

She brought her hands to cover her face, and a soft sob escaped her trembling fingers.  He followed her down as she crumpled to the bed, his long arms folding around her shoulders.  He was still in his mail.

“It’s not fair.”

“I know.”

“I need you here,” she said through trembling hands.   “ _He_ needs you here.   _She_ needs you here.”

“I know.”  

She buried her red face in his neck and the words came pouring out through her sobs.

“I still remember it.  The fire at Summerhall, where my parents died.  Where so many died.  I was so small, but I remember it.  I still have nightmares about that orange and black sky—and the blood and the screams.”

The last words were ragged rasps.  Selwyn held her more tightly against his chest.

“My darling,” he said, stroking her hair.  “What are you afraid of?”  

Helaena pulled away from him.  She was weeping uncontrollably, and breathing in short gasps and heaves.

“Aerys and his cruelty, his obsession with fire—if you go to King’s Landing now--“ she swallowed hard.  “--what if you _burn_ and I never, ever see you again?”

Selwyn gently brought her forehead to rest on his with one hand behind her head, his other hand tracing her freckled cheek.  Her eyes were squeezed shut, but giant tears still managed to escape, trickling down her face and into the deep creases of his palm.

“Helaena,” he whispered.  “Look into my eyes.”

She did.

“I promise that I will return to you,” he said.  “I swear it.”

He kissed her mouth.  She softened.

“I _swear_ it.”

Again he kissed her.  She opened her shaking lips.  Her hands clenched tightly in his heavy mail.  

“ _I swear it_.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Character note:
> 
> Galladon is somewhere on the autism spectrum. Of course, there is no recognition of such conditions in this type of medieval society, no protocol for dealing with special needs kids, so "tough love" actually makes things much, much worse.


	3. Warrior, Mother, Mother, Warrior

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fire and Ice
> 
> Some say the world will end in fire,  
> Some say in ice.  
> From what I’ve tasted of desire  
> I hold with those who favor fire.  
> But if it had to perish twice,  
> I think I know enough of hate  
> To say that for destruction ice  
> Is also great  
> And would suffice.
> 
> \- Robert Frost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new chapter every Monday.

-

Selwyn

-

A narrow, black canal jagged between the two ships.  All else was ice and fog.  Selwyn peered through the mist at the silhouette of the enemy vessel.  He could just see the commander’s silvery blonde head.  The ice-lodged ships were only a strong stone’s throw away from each other--yet they couldn’t be farther apart.

“We either set them on fire and hope the ice melts enough to dislodge our ship, or we die of starvation,” his battle captain said.  His long, scraggly beard was crusted in ice, and his clothes hung from him in stiff, ragged drapes. 

“That is _suicide_ ,” Ser Goodwin hissed.  “At the first sight of our tipped arrows, they’ll burn us first.  They may even have pots of wildfire, gods know--they’re Targaryens.”

Selwyn heard his wife’s voice, a distant echo in his head.

_What will you do?  Go to war with the Targaryens?_

This was the prickly eve of war.  A false start could lead them all to ruin.  And yet they could wait no longer.  

The planned siege of King’s Landing had failed.  Winter had come again after the false spring, and even Blackwater Bay was frozen solid.  They sailed north, delivering Lord Robert to the Vale.  Shortly thereafter, the _Evenstar_ locked horns with _Fireblood_ \--a ship out of Dragonstone. Selwyn had no wish to engage, but during the madness of King Aerys and the harrowing murders of Stark lords—all Targaryens were enemies.  

Northward and northward they circled like bulls, until a hard wind sent them both careening into an ice field just east of the Fingers.  Water froze fully around the ships, locking them into a strong but shallow ice shelf.  A merciful crevice opened the water between them, but it could not be widened.  For months they waged a cold and hungry staredown, trapped together yet apart and waiting for spring.  But time was no heroic knight.  The sun would not shine, and every hour was darker than the last.  The ice shelf tightened and grew, squeezing their broadsides like a white iron clamp.  Like the icy fingers of death.

“My lord,” the battle captain pressed.  “We must torch them.  It is our only hope of survival.”

“Absolutely not,” Ser Goodwin said.  “They’ll burn us first.”

“Would you have us starve to death, Ser Goodwin?”

“Before burning to death?  Yes.”  

Selwyn barely heard their bickering.  He’d learned it all ages ago.

_What will you do?_

He went below deck to check provisions.  

“Three weeks left of fermented onions, my lord,” a skinny galley swab shouted.  “And no more fish.  These waters are spent.”  Selwyn nodded.

He stooped into the cabins.  

Soldiers and sailors leaned against their bunks, many sick, trembling and half-starved.

He thought of their mothers on Tarth.  He knew each and every one of them.  What would he tell them it was all for, if he ever saw them again?  He thought of his own children, Galladon and Brienne.  Would he even live to see them grow?  And of course, he thought of Helaena.  But even thoughts of her did not warm him now.  They were too far from home--and too, too cold.  Selwyn shivered as he stepped back out into the long night.

The Tarth ship was larger, and positioned more laterally on the ice shelf than the Dragonstone ship.  Should _Fireblood_ burn, it may melt enough ice around it for the _Evenstar_ to sail free.

_What will you do?_

The mist cleared for a moment.  Selwyn took his far-eye from his pocket and squinted into its bronze tube.  He saw the Targaryen commander’s face, his eyes sunk deep into the sharp points of his cheekbones.

_They are just as starved as we are._

Selwyn looked again to the watery canal between the ships.

“Ready me a boat,” he said.  

“My lord--”

“Do it.”

 

-

Helaena

-

Winter’s return was harsh.  Lady Helaena found the constant stream of supplicants to Evenfall overwhelming, and soon stopped receiving them one at a time.  Instead, she opened the castle doors to all of them at once.  

With Maester Osmynd’s help, she turned the Great Hall into a place of refuge and reserves.  There was a pantry of medicinal supplies over here, sorted piles of furs and wool blankets over there, and a hearth burning in every corner.  Pots of hot fish stew, bread, and wine lined the long oak tables.  The fish was not always fresh, the bread often stale and the wine watery, but it was better than what her people had at their own houses.  She spent the dark days bustling between tables, keeping up spirits, and tending to all of Tarth’s needs and concerns.

Yet she tired more quickly as her belly grew larger.   _Likely twins_ , the maester said.  

She stood before the medicinal pantry and bent back into her hands.

“You have been on your feet too long, my lady,” Maester Osmynd said behind her.  “You need rest.”

“I am fine, Maester Osmynd,” she said, straightening.  “The last thing I want is to lie in bed when there’s so much work to be done.”

“Rest is the work of a lady when she is with child.”

She smiled as she selected a small bottle from the shelf and tucked it into her cloak.  She turned to the maester.

“The Tarths have been my family longer than I’ve been wife to Selwyn,” she said.  “They took me in as a child, raised me as one of their own.  I owe a great debt to this isle.  It feels good to repay it.”

_And the work helps me to not think of my missing husband._

She approached a table where a man huddled over his cup.  She crouched to him and produced the bottle from her cloak.

“This is for your wife’s pain,” she said gently.

“Thank you, Lady Evenstar.”

Helaena grimaced.

“Do not style me such.  Evenstar is my husband’s title—not mine.”  She moved on to the next table.

“They call you that because they respect you,” Maester Osmynd said, following her.  “Not because they think Lord Selwyn is gone forever.”  

She sighed.

“It is now six months since the last sighting of his ship,” she said.  “Are you certain that it is not too cold for the ravens?  That they don’t freeze mid-flight?”

Maester Osmynd shook his head somberly.  “Ravens still fly from the Wall, my lady.  And that is well north of anywhere a ship can go.”  

She felt a tug at her skirts.  She turned to see Brienne, looking up at her with big blue eyes.  Helaena picked her up and kissed her.  “Sweet girl.  Where is your brother?”  

Brienne pointed a stubby finger.  Galladon sat at a nearby table, plunging his wood dragon toy into a woman’s bowl of stew.  Fish chunks splashed while the woman sat with her mouth agape, not daring to scold the heir of Tarth.

“I’ll get him, my lady,”  Helaena’s handmaiden said.  She rushed to the boy, and tried to soothe the toy out of his hands.  Galladon howled in protest.

“Selwyn would be so embarrassed by this,” Helaena said, shaking her head with lament. “I don’t know what’s more difficult.  Mothering all of Tarth, or my own children.”

“Patience, my lady,” the maester said.

“I _am_ patient.  But it’s not normal--he is almost six.”  She shifted her daughter to her other hip.  “Brienne is not two years old, and she has more words, fewer impulses.  Perhaps I should be harder on him.”

The great door groaned opened.  Helaena turned.  

A rookery boy stumbled into the hall, a raven squawking and struggling on his arm.

Helaena felt her throat tighten.

“Heavens, boy, I told you to bring the messages, not the birds with them!” Maester Osmynd said, hastening to calm the raven and free its message.  His face grew long at the sight of the seal.

“Where is it from?” Helaena asked, her voice echoing low and foreign off the high walls.  The hall fell deadly silent.  A hundred pair of eyes fixed on her.  

“Dragonstone, my lady.”  He held the roll out to her, his arm shaking.

She closed her eyes.  _Targaryens_.  There were few reasons to receive news from Targaryens during this time, none of them good.  A thousand prayers whispered through her mind.

_Let him be alive.  If they hold him ransom, let them have anything they want.  Let them have it all.  Just let him be alive.  Let him be alive._

She took the roll and opened it.  His handwriting glowed in the soft hearth light.  Her hand flew to her mouth.  “He’s alive!” she announced, skimming the message. “ _They_ are alive!”  Tears streamed down her cheeks as she read the words for all to hear.

_My lady,_

_We sail south for Evenfall.  No fatalities aboard, inform the families.  I am well.  I love you._

_Selwyn_

Helaena kept that last part to herself, heart soaring.  The hall clapped and cheered, and filled with song.  Slowly, she turned the parchment over, to the side with the red dragon seal.

She looked to Maester Osmynd, her brows knit in confusion.  

“But what is he doing at Dragonstone?”

 

-

Selwyn

-

The silver-haired Targaryen commander nodded to Selwyn, wearing the slightest of smiles.  His longboat was part of the twenty or so that peppered the glassy port of Dragonstone in the night.  Selwyn returned the salute from the _Evenstar,_ his crew lifting anchor and hoisting sail.  They were finally going home.    

“I still don’t understand it,” Ser Goodwin muttered beside him.  His hair and beard were overgrown like everyone else's, but his steel-grey eyes were sharp as ever--searching for answers in the boats rowing ashore.

“Don’t understand what, Ser Goodwin?”  

Selwyn examined the starboard lines.  He frowned at a knot, much too coiled and elaborate.  Targaryen seamanship was a curious thing.  He reworked it into a simple bowline.

“You never told us what happened that night.”

“Ah, yes.  What night?”  

He noticed that all the lines were tied in such a way.  It would take forever to rework them.  

“The night you rowed out to them,” Ser Goodwin pressed.  “The night you talked with their commander.  For hours.  The night they all boarded our ship. The night they _helped_ us torch their own ship to melt the ice.  How?”

He followed Selwyn to the main mast, and watched him struggle with a particularly tight Targaryen knot.

“You must tell me what happened, my lord.  I and the captain and the rest of the crew have all been too scared to shit this past fortnight—sailing with the enemy on our decks.”

Selwyn smiled as he freed the knot.

“We talked of our families,” he said.  “Lord Gaemon has a wife, three girls—one Brienne’s age—and a boy who sounds the spitting image of Galladon.”

Ser Goodwin waited for more.  Selwyn just kept untying more knots.

“You must have made negotiations, promised a trade--”

“We spent an entire candle talking of our sons in particular,” Selwyn said, his brow furrowed in concentration.  “I should probably invite a singer to court--Gaemon claims that music tames his son’s impulses.”

Ser Goodwin’s jaw slacked.  “Do you mean to tell me, my lord, that we spent six months on the brink of starvation, freezing, swords and arrows and pitch at the ready—and all we had to do all this time was climb aboard each other’s ships and sing songs of home together?”

“It was the right time,” Selwyn said.  “If they had wanted war, they could have had it long ago.  If we had wanted war, we could have had it.  But they didn’t, and we didn’t.”

Ser Goodwin leaned his head against the mast with a soft thud.  He watched Selwyn continue to rework lines.  His look of shock softened to awe.

“By gods, that is diplomacy.  You ought to be king, my lord.  You could end this whole war yourself before it bloody begins.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Selwyn said.  He finished his work, and looked back to Dragonstone.  The beach was alight with torch fire, and scores of blonde-haired women and children gathered to greet their husbands and fathers.  

“But sometimes it is the Mother who wins the battle, not the Warrior.”

The island diminished into the distance as they sailed due south.  

“Well,” Ser Goodwin said, sniffing the air with a great flourish.  “I do look forward to smelling the sweet waters of the port of Tarth.  That sea sewer once made me retch.  I would happily bathe in it now to cleanse myself of my own stink.”

Selwyn almost laughed.

“I have an affinity for those sweet waters myself,” he said. “I proposed marriage to Helaena while swimming in them.”

Ser Goodwin raised an eyebrow, his forehead creased with surprise. “My lord?”

Selwyn held his breath a moment.

“I once told you I chose to stay in Tarth because I felt a responsibility to my people.  That was not…the entire truth.”

Ser Goodwin crossed his arms.  “Do continue, my lord.”

Selwyn gazed over the bow.  He imagined the dark outline of Evenfall Hall emerging through the mist, the bedchamber window of the west tower glowing golden.  He thought of Helaena, all smiling and freckled and warm.  And soft.  What would she say now to see him so thin and gaunt?  Her face would darken with worry--but she would be happy.  

“I always loved her,” Selwyn said.  “But I was very bad at making decisions with my heart.  One day, she got tired of waiting and agreed to a marriage offer from some prince in bloody Essos.  I didn’t know what a damned fool I was until the moment I watched her board the ship.”  

He stole a glance to Ser Goodwin.  The knight was listening in silent wonder.  Selwyn shook his head, and couldn't help but smile at the memory.

“I took a fisherman’s skiff,” he continued. “I rowed out as fast as I could, jumped into the water, and shouted up at her that I loved her and asked her to marry me.  She looked at me like I was stark-raving mad--and then she jumped in, too.”

He remembered how they embraced and kissed and wiped muck from each other’s faces, laughing and weeping.

“She might have been gone forever, had I waited another minute...”  His voice trailed off as he thought of it.

“There," he said, turning to Ser Goodwin.  "What do you think of your noble Lord Evenstar now that you know he’s made a confession of love from a sea sewer?”

A wide grin spread across the knight’s face.  “You’ve never looked so noble to me, my lord.”

For the first time in a very long time, they laughed.

 

-

Helaena

-

“Joanna Lannister soaked in the same potion to ease the birth of her twins, my lady.”  

Helaena held the bottle in her wet hands, humming softly.  Dim light caught in the thickness of the liquid and its glass, making it glow like a tiny lantern.  

“Do you know what it is made from?” she asked.

“Mostly pine oil,” her handmaiden said, tending the bedchamber hearth.  “It softens the skin.  Some say it anoints a twin birth with a life of good fortune.”

“Good fortune?” Helaena laughed as she tipped the contents into the tub.  “I doubt Jaime and Cersei needed that.  Their Lannister blood is thick with good fortune.” _But poor Joanna._   Though she had survived the birth of her twins, she hadn't survived the birth of her third child--a dwarf. 

The oil bloomed in the water, swirling around her swollen breasts and her moon-like belly. 

"What do you think he'll say when he sees you, my lady?"

"I expect he'll be so shocked he won't be able to say anything at all.  Everyone else wanes, and I continue to wax!”

The handmaiden laughed.  “We’ll all grow fat again, my lady.  The sun will wake soon.”

Helaena dipped her hands in the water, then lifted them up next to the candlelight on a wood soap plank over the tub.  Her fingers looked coated in slippery honey.  The bathwater trickling down made a sweet music of chimes and bells.  

Hot wax dropped into the water.  The hiss and sizzle made Helaena jump.  Her handmaiden rushed to move the candle away from the tub.  

“Careful, my lady!  The oil does not agree with the flame.”  

Helaena scooped the hardened wax from the smoking water.  It was still warm, and she turned it over in her hands.  “What do you think--is it a bird or a dragon?”

Her handmaiden peered into her palms.

“I rather think it looks like a ship!  Your husband’s ship.  Sailing for you right now.”

Helaena kissed the wax and set it on the plank.

“Then I shan’t let it sink,” she said.

Her handmaiden laughed, and sat down on a stool to wash Helaena’s hair.  “I thought you weren’t superstitious, my lady.”

“I’m not, except when my husband is coming home.  I pray to the old gods, the new gods, the moon, the stars, anything and everything if it helps him cross this last bit of sea unscathed.”

She waved her hands around in the water.  The light danced.  She looked around at the candles, the hearth.

“It’s a funny thing,” Helaena said.  “I used to be afraid of any fire at all—even candles.  Most children are afraid of the dark.  I was the strange child who hated the light.”  

“The Summerhall tragedy must have been awful for you, my lady,” her handmaiden said, weaving her fingers through Helaena’s wet hair.  “And to lose mother and father both to the flames...”

“Only my father,” Helaena said softly.  “My mother went mad with grief, and died of a broken heart.  There’s a ballade for her--Jenny’s Song.  That song tonight will not go from my mind.”

She hummed softly.  The bath water rippled to the vibrations of her voice, and it made her skin prickle.

“You are grown cold, my lady,” her handmaiden said.  She massaged Helaena’s shoulders with her knuckles.  “I’ll pour you more hot water.”

A ship horn blasted.  Helaena jumped.  Her handmaiden ran to the window.  

“Is it?” Helaena said, gripping the sides of the tub.

“It is!  The _Evenstar_ is here!  Oh--careful, my lady!”

The handmaiden caught Helaena as she slipped trying to hoist herself from the tub--it was too oily, and her body was heavy and uneven.  

“Quickly, fetch more towels!” she told her handmaiden, laughing.  “I don’t want to fall and break before I see him!”

“Yes, my lady!”

“And also--wake Galladon and Brienne.  I want them dressed and presentable.”  

“Yes, my lady!”

The handmaiden left, and shut the chamber door.  Helaena leaned her head back and closed her eyes.  She contented herself to soak in quiet joy, knowing he was nearly home.  

_High in the halls of the kings who are gone,_ _Jenny would dance with her ghosts..._

Helaena frowned.  Her heart was joyful, but for some reason she could not rid her mind of the sad song.  She shook it away.  

She imagined their embrace when he came to shore.  He would hold her head against his chest and kiss the top of her hair.  He would feel the bold curve of her belly and smile down at her.

 _Thump_.

Helaena jerked in surprise, making a splash.  The sweet chimes of the water now sounded like warning bells.  

_Thump thump._

With alarm, she realized the sound was coming from under her bed.  Her heart beat faster, and her eyes darted around for something to throw.  She reached for a candle and grasped it tightly.

 _Thump thump thump._  

A shadow slid out from under the bed.  The shadow came closer to the light, and raised its arms over its pale blonde head--

“Galladon!” Helaena breathed in relief, and set the candle on the wood soap plank.  “My sweet boy, you gave me such a fright!”

Galladon smiled, waving his toy dragon in the air.

“The handmaiden must be roaming the castle frantic, looking for you!” Helaena laughed.  “Why don’t you go and find her?  I need help out of this water.”

Her son was distracted by the shadows cast by the light.  He ran the perimeter of the room, making great swoops with the toy dragon.  He was humming.   _Jenny’s song._

“Did you learn that just now?  While I was singing?”

He smiled at her and sang.

_High in the halls of the kings who are gone,_

_Jenny would dance with her ghosts…_

She should have clapped for joy, it was the most he’d ever spoken--but she caught a chill instead.

The horn blasted again, and she looked to the window.  Her heart beat impatiently.  

“Come, Galladon--give me the dragon.  Your father’s ship is here!”

He wasn’t listening.  He was still singing and swooping.

“Galladon, stop it!” she scolded.  

He came close enough for her to seize him.  Helaena tried to grab the toy, but her hands were too slippery.  Galladon held it back, struggling to free himself from her grasp.

“Give it to me, Galladon.”  

She lunged for it again.  He pushed her away.  She slapped him hard across the cheek.

He howled, and plunged his toy dragon into the bath water.  Water splashed out and hit the candle over the tub.  The oil sizzled, and the flame rose higher.  Both mother and child froze when they saw it.  

Helaena felt a cold knot in her stomach.

She saw him look at the candle, then back at the dragon, slick with oily bathwater.  Galladon's eyes were dark and reckless.

“ _No_!”

He held the dragon’s mouth to the flame over the tub.  The fire caught, and went up in a blaze.  Galladon yelped in surprise and pain, and jumped away as he threw the toy, sending it flying upward.   The fiery ball tumbled through the air, casting a moving shadow on the wall.  Helaena watched in horror as the shadow loomed large like a real, full-grown dragon, its mouth gaping wide open.    

It dove headfirst into the tub.

Flames tore through the oily water.  

Helaena closed her eyes and screamed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments always appreciated. Thank you :-)


	4. Weathered and Worn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lord Selwyn grieves after the death of his wife and youngest daughters, and Ser Goodwin holds Evenfall together during the Siege of Storm's End. Also--onions, and Davos Seaworth. 
> 
> Brienne is age 3.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new chapter every Monday.

-

Ser Goodwin

-

The long night broke, and winter yielded slowly.    

Ser Goodwin started his climb just as dawn kissed the sea, and the sun rolled lazy over the horizon like a sleeping dog.  It was some strange season, with daybreak and nightfall pressing just one hour of frail light between them.  Beautiful, but no warmth in it.

The hill he climbed was bald but for the lone tree at the top.  Brown winter grass rustled beneath the knight's boots, falling heavier with every step.  He could hear the sound of shovel hitting earth, cutting through the crash of waves on Tarth’s western cliffs. He reached the summit, and the waves died away.  Only wind sounded through the branches.  His lord Evenstar stooped still over the shovel.  He looked to have aged some ten years in the past few moons.  His golden hair was going grey.  The lines in his brow had deepened.  All mirth was gone from his long face.

“I told you to leave me alone," he said, voice wooden.  

“You should not be alone in this, my lord.”  

The lord continued to dig.  Every time shovel hit stone, Ser Goodwin felt his insides flinch.  The earth was dry.  By the tree lay two cedar boxes, infant-sized.

Alysanne and Arianne did not live four moons past their mother’s death.  They had simply stopped breathing.  _No man should ever live to bury his own children,_ Ser Goodwin thought.   _And so soon after his wife’s death..._

He looked to the larger grave.  The mound was grassless and bare, and still too fresh.  There had been no traditional Tarth funeral pyre for Lady Helaena--she had tasted enough fire in her life.  After the Maester cut the twin girls from her womb, Lord Selwyn wrapped her burnt body in their wedding sheets, then laid her to rest beneath the tree she had loved since girlhood.  

There was nothing to say that had not been said.  

Ser Goodwin looked over the sea at the purple line of land.  Robert’s Rebellion waged full force against King Aerys--yet the Evenstar did not yet commit his forces.  Tarth was an island of indifference, and Selwyn a lord of grief.

“We have news from Storm’s End—“

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“They are under siege, my lord.”  

Lord Selwyn stopped digging.

“Storm’s End is surrounded, land and sea,” Ser Goodwin said.  “Ser Cortnay Penrose managed to steal away with little Renly.  I met them at port before sunrise.  Lord Stannis thought it best that his little brother and the knight seek refuge at Evenfall until the siege is over.”

Lord Selwyn rested his shovel against the tree. “We will host them,” he said.  “But I will send no ships.”

He knelt to the earth, and gently lowered the cedar boxes into their small graves.  He scooped the loose soil over them, and pressed the dirt firm.  Ser Goodwin wanted to help, but knew it was not his place.

_The only way I can help him now is by helping Tarth._

“We cannot remain neutral forever, my lord.”

His lord said nothing.

Ser Goodwin bit his lips together.  He glanced at the tree again.  “She would not wish to see you so dispassionate.  The enemy may yet come knocking at Tarth.”

Lord Selwyn squinted up at Ser Goodwin, his face mottled with light and shadow.  Even his sapphire blue eyes had dulled, and set deeper into his furrowed brow.

“Would that she had died at some enemy’s hands, so I knew who that enemy was,” he said. “I could learn to hate them as much as I loved her.  I could nurse that vengeance into a passion with which to drive my sword.”   He looked to his soiled hands.  “But it was my own son who killed her.”

“It was an accident, my lord.”

“He burned her.  She was afraid of fire all her life and he burned her.”

“The boy knows.  He lives with those scars every day.  You must see that it pains him, deeply.”

“I cannot look at him.  What is there worth fighting for when I am afraid of my own heir?”

“Your daughter, then,” Ser Goodwin said, in desperation.  “Fight for Brienne.”

Lord Selwyn bowed his head, still on his knees.  “It seems I’ve not enough warmth for daughters, I have just buried two of them.”  

Ser Goodwin knelt down before him.  “I swore an oath to shield your back and keep your counsel, my lord.  You must allow me to do that much.”

Lord Selwyn searched the sky.  The sun dipped low, and the shadow of the tree grew longer.  It moved and cast dark branches across his face.  He sighed and closed his eyes.  

“I feel…something in me slowly starting to collapse, Ser Goodwin.”

He left the tree, left the hill.  That night, the Evenstar fell into a long sleep.  

 

***

 

“Fried onions.  Stewed onions.  Boiled onions.  I weep from so many damned onions.”  Ser Cortnay Penrose said.  He pushed his dinner on his plate with his fork, silver on silver.

Ser Goodwin cringed from the scraping sound.  The two knights supped side by side at the head table in the great hall, as they had done each evening for the better part of a year.  The three children, Galladon, Brienne, and Renly, sat on the floor below, enjoying a singer recently come to court.  A skinny dog roamed the perimeter of the head table, sniffing for scraps, and Ser Cortnay threw it a slice of cooked onion.  The dog licked the fish juices from the limp crescent.  It looked back up at the knight, licking its chops.

They cooked fish sparingly.  Fishermen simply couldn’t work fast enough to feed all of Tarth, and the castle stores had nearly been depleted.  No one had counted on the naval blockade of Shipbreaker Bay and the subsequent trade cut-off from the mainland. Onions were now the main staple of their diet, plentiful and hardy enough to last through winter. 

_And insufferable after months of naught else._

Ser Goodwin had long given up on his dinner.  He instead busied himself whittling wooden ship miniatures--it was the latest part of his effort to renovate the worn map table in the lord’s council chamber.  

“Storm’s End has it worse.  I can only imagine what they feast on,” Ser Goodwin said.  He blew small shavings off his carving, and inspected his work.

“Their own dogs, surely.  Thank gods we are not yet so desperate,” Ser Cortnay said, throwing another onion to the dog.  

“Well, then--Lord Stannis was good enough to send you and young Renly to enjoy fine dining at Tarth.”  Ser Goodwin said, sliding the ship over to his companion.  

Ser Cortnay snorted, and poked the ship with his finger.  He furrowed his bushy red eyebrows.

“I owe nothing to Stannis’ good nature.  The humorless man has no love for me nor his little brother.  He probably sent us to Tarth hoping we’d perish along the way.”  He flicked the ship back to Ser Goodwin.  “Sails are uneven on that one.”

Ser Goodwin frowned.  The sails looked perfectly even to him.  He positioned the ship with the rest of his miniature fleet and reclined in his chair, away from Ser Cortnay and his scraping fork.  He tuned his ear instead to the lively music that filled the hall.  Renly danced, swirling his little cloak round and round.  Brienne laughed and clapped her hands.  Galladon sat listening to the songs intently.

The singer was a curious-looking man.  He dressed in colorful garb much like a mummer, his jacket fitted and flared and somewhat worn.  His brown plaited hair was tied off in ribbons and sticking up in all directions about his head.  And his instrument of choice was a ‘cello, which Ser Goodwin had only seen at wedding feasts.  Yet the man played it like a creature possessed, dancing and singing all the while--as if it were part of his body.

“A far cry from the melancholy harpist at Storm’s End,” Ser Cortnay said, the corners of his red mustache turning up.  “Where did you find this…thing?”

“Gods know,” Ser Goodwin said.  “Horys Copper Tongue was Maester Osmynd’s work.  He’s part singer, part nurse, and part fool, but wiser than he looks.”

“Copper Tongue?” Ser Cortnay asked, bemused.  "I've heard singers styled themselves as Silver Tongues...but copper?  Too base a metal even for bards I would think."

“He says he’s too humble for a tongue of silver and would probably sell one if he had it."

They watched Copper Tongue lean his ‘cello on one knee and sip from a water goblet.  “Now, my lordlets and ladylet,” he said to the children.  “We must yet rest and pay tribute to the fruit of the year—the onion!”  He drew an onion from his pocket.

“Onions aren’t fruit,” said Renly.

“They don’t grow on trees!” Brienne agreed.

“Ah, but they are fruits of the earth.” The singer bit boldly into the raw onion like it was an apple.  The children gasped and giggled.  Ser Goodwin and Ser Cortnay winced.  

Copper Tongue licked the onion juice from the corners of his mouth.  “Mmmm--delicious and sweet!” he said, taking another bite.  The display was enough even for the dog to think the onion was some tasty bit of fish, and he paused near the singer to lick his chops, eyes shining.

“So many layers, yet it is the same fruit,” he said, waving it in the air.  “A song is like an onion—its many verses are its layers, and yet it is the same song!”

He took another large bite.  Tears rolled down his cheeks.  

“And they both make me weep!  It is only right to weep when eating the onion and singing songs, lordlets and ladylet.  For weeping reminds me that I can laugh!”  

He tossed the onion core to the dog, who caught it mid-air on its hind legs.  Immediately, the dog hawked the core onto the floor, hacking and spitting.  The children burst into laughter.  Brienne patted the dog on the head and fed it some dried salted fish from her pocket.  

“Play more!” Galladon said, still laughing.

“As my lordlet commands,” the singer said, nodding deeply to the blonde boy.

They watched as Galladon sang along to a traditional Tarth song with his name in it-- _Galladon of Morne._

“The boy improves,” Ser Cortnay said.  “A shame Lord Selwyn cannot see it.”

He looked at Ser Goodwin, who looked away.

“He’s ill and grieving.  He will regain his strength.”

“I’m not a fool, Ser Goodwin,” Ser Cortnay said solemnly.  “We haven’t seen his lordship since we first arrived at Tarth.”

“I’ve told you, he is ill,”  Ser Goodwin said, drinking from his cup with finality.

Ser Cortnay sighed with dissatisfaction.  He frowned at Galladon.  

“The boy is too young.  Does Lord Selwyn have any brothers?”

Ser Goodwin slammed his cup back down on the table.

“Damn it, Cortnay--I said he will regain his strength.  Maester Osmynd tends to him.”

Ser Cortnay scoffed.

“He won’t if all he’s got to eat are these damned onions.”  Again he scraped the pile around his plate with his fork.  Ser Goodwin recoiled at the grating sound, then grabbed the fork from his companion’s hand and let it clatter to the floor.  Ser Cortnay sat stunned, then carefully folded his hands on the table.  

“A thousand times I have tried to think how we can pierce the blockade,” Ser Goodwin said, rubbing his temples.  “Storm’s End will die if we don’t help them.”   _And I will go mad in this man’s company if we share the same island much longer._

“You don’t have the fleet to match the Redwynes,” Ser Cortnay said, watching the dog saunter over to lick the dropped fork.  “At first sight of your sails they will crush you.”

The great doors burst open.  Two guardsmen entered, a manacled man with stringy brown hair struggling between them.  

Copper Tongue stopped playing, and gathered the children aside.  The dog growled.  The knights rose, hands at their hilts.  

The senior guardsman threw the man onto the floor--sending him skidding on hands and knees.

“Caught ourselves a nice big fish,” he said.  “A smuggler.  He’s got some meats in his ship.”

Ser Goodwin paced the length of the hall, eyes fixed on the man at the floor.  He knew his face.  “Gods be good,” he said.  “Is that... _Davos_?”

Davos looked at him incredulously.  

“Goodwin?” he said.

“That’s Ser Goodwin to you, smuggler!” the guardsman cried.  “Our Castellan of Tarth!”

“It’s all right,” Ser Goodwin said to the sailor.  “I was no castellan or knight when I knew him in Flea Bottom.”  He could not suppress a smile creeping to his lips.

“We were thievin’ boys then,” Davos said.  Even beneath the dirt and scruff, there was light and merriment in the smuggler’s face.

“You were _friends_ with this man?” Ser Cortnay asked Ser Goodwin, confounded.  “You were-- _thieves_ together?”

“It wasn’t so much thieving as…redistributing the wealth,” Ser Goodwin said.

He remembered the covert operation of their childhood--working the outskirts of the castle at King’s Landing, filching jewels from pockets of rich nobles while Davos worked the port--stealing foodstuffs off large ships.  They pooled their trappings at night, and divided the money and goods amongst the poorest families of King’s Landing.  

“Goodwin and Davos--the boy knights of Flea Bottom.  Those were the days indeed.”

“You did keep some silvers for yourself to buy your first sword and armor.”

Goodwin raised his eyebrows.  

“And you kept more silvers to buy your first skiff.”

“I needed more help than you,” Davos said lowly.

It was true.  Goodwin had always been bigger and stronger, quicker to learn the sword than Davos.  On the day a knight bid him enter his service, Goodwin bid goodbye to Flea Bottom--leaving his friend behind.

“Knighthood looks well on you, Ser Goodwin,” Davos said, forcing a smile.  

A silence hung between them.

“Was there no other choice for you, my friend?”Ser Goodwin asked.

Davos looked down, like a dog expecting the stick.  He was ragged and filthy, but that was not the worst of it.  His eyes were filled with shame.  It was clear that Davos had found no nobler work than that of a smuggling sellsail.  

“Enough of this nostalgia,” Ser Cortnay said.  “Throw him in the dungeons!  I’ve heard tell of this smuggler, and his crimes are many.  Then bring the meat from his ship--we could make use of that.”  He rubbed his hands hungrily as the guardsmen once more grabbed Davos by the scruff.  

“Wait,” Ser Goodwin shouted.

They stopped.  

“I hear it is black-sailed,” Ser Goodwin said.  “Your ship.”

“Aye, she is,” Davos said.

Ser Goodwin’s mind raced.  “Can you pierce a naval blockade with her?  Get through to Storm’s End?”

“Depends,” Davos said uneasily.

“Ser Goodwin!” said Ser Cortnay.  “What in seven hells are you proposing?”

“They are starving to death.  Davos and his black-sailed ship may be able to sail through the Redwynes unnoticed.  He may be their only hope for survival.”  

“To release this smuggler would be treason!  I will not allow it.”

“I am castellan of Evenfall, and I make the decisions in the Evenstar’s absence,” Ser Goodwin growled. “You are but a guest here, Ser Cortnay.”  

Ser Cortnay’s lip twitched, but he fell back.  Ser Goodwin stepped slowly toward Davos.

“You’ll risk your life by this deed,” he said. “But you may yet earn your honor.”  

_Honor._

Something turned in the smuggler’s eyes.  His chest swelled and lifted.  In that moment, Ser Goodwin saw the years lift from his brow, saw the trustworthy face of the boy he once knew.  

“Will you do this thing, my friend?”

Davos grinned widely.

“Aye.  I’ll do it.”

Not two hours later, they had loaded Davos’ ship with all the onions her berth could carry, and pushed off from the private docks of Evenfall.  The wind was gusting, but Davos and his small crew moved quickly to tighten the sails and point westward.  He nodded to Ser Goodwin one last time, then turned into the sea’s blackness.

“I still don’t agree with this,” Ser Cortnay muttered.  “How do you know he’ll do it?”

“Trust me, I know what kind of man Davos is,” Ser Goodwin said.  “He may even be Ser Davos in the morning.”

Ser Cortnay raised his eyebrows at the thought.

“The morning of Ser Davos...”

They stood watching the ship grow smaller.  Water lapped against the docks.

"Only he can make the choice to wake.”

“What?” Ser Goodwin said.

“Only he can make the choice to wake,” Ser Cortnay said again.  “Men change over time.  They become weathered and worn.  You do not know him as you once did.”

Ser Goodwin was not certain whether Ser Cortnay spoke of Davos the smuggler or Lord Selwyn the Evenstar.

The outline of the ship was just barely visible.

Cortnay chuckled.  

“What now?”

“I just think of Stannis receiving this unexpected shipment…”   He couldn’t finish, and laughed harder.  He hooted and slapped his knee, trying to get the words out.  “Stannis Baratheon in all his stiff formality, and a boat full of onions!”

Ser Goodwin didn’t laugh. A coldness lingered in his heart.  He looked for the boat again--but it had already been swallowed by the dark cloak of night.  Whatever happened next, Tarth had now sent a ship.  Tarth was less than neutral.

“Who knows?” Ser Cortnay said, wiping tears from his eyes.  “We may yet be calling your smuggler friend the Onion Knight!”

Ser Cortnay was still laughing as Ser Goodwin wandered away from the docks, back up the steep steps to Evenfall.  He climbed the winding stairwell to the Lord’s chamber.  Maester Osmynd opened the door, his face long and solemn.

He walked to the bed where his lord lay.  “Go to bed Maester Osmynd.  I will keep this watch.”

The Evenstar’s skin was dull and pale.  His golden hair was ash.  

_Only he can make the choice to wake._

The knight sat next to his lord’s bed.  

“A storm is coming, my lord,” he whispered.  “And I cannot weather it alone.  You must live.   _You must live._ ”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments always appreciated. Thank you!


	5. The Calm and the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A great storm comes to Tarth, and choices must be made.
> 
> Brienne is 4.

-

Selwyn

-

He swam through an endless sea of shadows.  Sound billowed all around like smoke.  He heard voices far above the surface, but he could not understand them.  It was like trying to grasp ink in water, or flour thrown into the wind.  The current was too strong, swelling and swelling, pushing him downward and deeper with no patch of light to guide him to the surface.  He was breathing without taking in air, drowning without dying.  If he only let go, he could withdraw and become part of the great below.  

A dream came to him.

Or perhaps it was a dream within a dream--it was difficult to tell one watery distortion from another.  All he knew were the two glimmering blades of light that reached toward him in parallel.  Storm violet and sapphire blue.  They were beautiful, but faint. They belonged to him, he knew--and so he swam for them.  A tempest churned the sea, pulling him back down into the undertow of darkness.  Yet he fought forward, reaching further.  The light blinded him the closer he swam, so bright it was painful.  He was reaching, reaching…

He broke the surface, and opened his eyes.  The brightness he reached for softened, turned golden.  Sunlight slanted through an opening.  He saw his hand still reaching for it.

Selwyn fell to the floor with a great thud.  He groaned.  Around him the fuzzy outline of his bedchamber sharpened into focus.  There was the bed, there was the table.  There was the window, drapes ruffling in the breeze.

He lifted himself from the floor, slowly.  His bones creaked under his weight.  It felt as though he was standing for the first time, dizzy from the rush of blood to his head.  He went to the window, drawn by the songs of birds, the breath of ocean.  His eyes scanned the port.  Clusters of ship masts adorned the harbor.  Had the Tarth fleet doubled?  Perhaps his eyes needed time to adjust.  The white morning sun bathed the cliffs in heavenly light.  It was so beautiful, he wondered if he had awakened in a different world.

Then he thought of Galladon and Brienne.

_I need to find my children._

He moved carefully down the stairwell, hand tracing the wall for support.  His muscles started to come back to life, stronger with each step.  The great hall was empty.  He thought to go back to the kitchens—he was starving—but had to find his children first.

He pushed the doors open, and felt a rush of warmth on his skin.  The sun was strong.  He lifted his arm to shield his eyes.  Two women servants walked through the courtyard, talking.  One saw him.  She paled and clutched at her companion, her lips moving soundlessly.  

_I have truly died and come back a ghost._

He heard music.  Sweet lively music, and children’s laughter.  He wandered towards it, slippers rasping on stone.  The music came from the yard.  Two blonde children with wooden swords in hand were laughing and sparring.  The boy was teaching the girl.  A brightly dressed singer played his ‘cello, and a maester stood by and watched.

The blonde girl saw him first.  She dropped her sword.  The singer stopped playing, and the maester and boy turned around.    

 _“Father!”_ Brienne cried, rushing to him.  She wrapped her little arms around his leg.  He nearly fell over.

“My lord!” Maester Osmynd was at his side in no time at all, and caught him.  “Heavens, when did you--how did you--are you well, my lord?”

Selwyn knelt to hold his daughter.  “I am well, Maester Osmynd,” he said.  His voice was hoarse from disuse, and he cleared it.  “But I am a bit hungry.”

The maester still held onto his shoulder, steadying himself as well as his lord.  “I will prepare the great hall at once, my lord.”

Over Brienne’s little shoulders, Selwyn saw the boy with violet eyes staring at him, mouth slightly open.  He was still clutching his wooden sword.  “Hello, Father,” he said.

 _I must be imagining that he speaks,_ Selwyn thought.  

But he held open an arm to his son.  Galladon dropped his things and ran to him.  Selwyn held both his children close, kissing their heads and leaning into them for life.

 

***

 

Plates of meat, cheese, and bread were set before him.  Selwyn ate heartily--such a hunger he had never known.  His children sat across from him, picking at their food distractedly and stealing stares at him.  They looked slightly different from how Selwyn remembered them.  Perhaps his illness had diluted his memory.

Soft music filled the hall.  The colorfully dressed singer from the courtyard sat next to the table, plucking a gentle tune on his ‘cello.  Once he saw Selwyn looking at him, he stopped playing.  He stood to attention, snapped his heels together, and held his ‘cello by the neck with one hand and his bow with the other like a sword.

“You are...?”  Selwyn asked, his eyebrows raised at the display.

The singer bowed deeply, with a flourish.  “Horys Copper Tongue, at your service m’lord.”

Selwyn frowned.  “Copper Tongue?” he asked Maester Osmynd.

“He came to court shortly after you fell ill.”

“I never saved enough money to buy myself a tongue of silver, m’lord,” Copper Tongue said with a humble dip of his chin.  

Lord Selwyn glanced at the strange man with plaits sticking up from his head.  Then back to his children with their older, sharpened features.

“How long have I been sleeping, Maester Osmynd?” he asked, lifting his water goblet.

“Over a year, my lord.”

Selwyn coughed on his water.  

“ _What?_ An entire _year_?”

The maester nodded.

“But how is that even possible?”

“No one knows, my lord,” he said.  “You were on your own time.”

Selwyn stared at his children.   _They_ _must be eight and four._

“We tried to wake you, father,” Galladon said.

Selwyn froze while tearing his bread _.  By the gods, the boy does speak._

Galladon was big and tall for his age, like Selwyn had been as a child.  Brienne was big for her age, too, and almost a younger copy of her brother.  Unlike Galladon, her eyes were blue instead of violet, and she had a spattering of freckles across her face.  She watched her father closely, mimicking his every movement.  He lifted his fork, and so did she.  He cut his meat, and so did she.  He speared his meat with his eating dagger, and so did she.  There was a certain deliberateness in her motions that was charming in a young child.  He smiled at her, and she smiled back shyly.  He felt a surge of warmth for her.  Truly, she was an adorable little girl.

Galladon took the dagger from her.

“That’s my dagger,” he said.  “And you’re too young to use it, you’ll hurt yourself,” he said.  He glanced at his father for approval, and reached over to cut his sister’s food for her.

Selwyn noticed Galladon’s hands, raised scars roping all around them.  The last time he saw the boy, his hands were still bandaged.   _The fire._  Selwyn could not help recalling a vision of Helaena’s ruined body in the bath.  

He shivered, and shook the image from his mind.  He could not allow himself to think of it.

“Maester Osmynd, give Brienne her own eating dagger.  She handles it well enough.”

Brienne beamed.  Galladon scowled.  

Copper Tongue played a soft, pensive tune, none too melancholy nor overly jaunty.  Strange-looking though he was, the singer had a talent for detecting mood and playing just the right music.  Selwyn remembered the conversation he had with Ser Goodwin about inviting a singer to court.  He started to smile.

He looked around the hall, searching for his master-at-arms.    

“Where is Ser Goodwin?”

“At the port,” the Maester said.  “He has been quite busy of late.”

Selwyn remembered he doubled fleet of ships in the harbor.

“Much has changed, my lord.”

“Tell me.”

Maester Osmynd held his breath, looking at the children.  

“Perhaps it is time for the two of you to run along with your singer,” he said.

“No!” Galladon said.  “I’m old enough, and so is Brienne.  I can tell you all about what’s happened in the kingdom, father.”  

“Galladon--” Maester Osmynd started.

“We have a new king.  King Robert.  Aerys is dead.”

Selwyn held his breath, struck by the heavy news.  He looked at Maester Osmynd, whose face told him it was true.

“He was killed by Ser Jaime Lannister,” Galladon said.  “Everyone says that what Ser Jaime did was wrong, but I think he’s the best knight that ever was.”  

“That’s enough, Galladon,” the maester said.

“The old king was mad,” Galladon protested. “He wanted to burn people.”  As soon as he said the words, he hid his scarred hands and dropped his gaze to the table.  

“King Robert.” Selwyn said after a silence.   “So the war is finished.”

“Not entirely,” the Maester said.  

“Are we involved?”

The Maester paused.  “You should speak with Ser Goodwin on such matters.”

Selwyn sighed.  He dropped his napkin into his plate.  “Ready my council chamber.  Summon Ser Goodwin and my guard, my captains.”

“You should rest and regain your strength, my lord.  There will be time.”

“I understand from the look on your face that time marches quickly.  I need a full briefing on the state of this kingdom, and Tarth’s involvement.  Find Ser Goodwin immediately.”

“Yes, my lord,” Maester Osmynd said.  He left to do his lord’s bidding.

Selwyn got up to leave for his bedchamber.  He was still in his sleeping robe and slippers, and needed to change into something more suitable.  

“Father!”

Selwyn turned.

Galladon was standing just before the steps, Brienne close behind him.  The boy looked hesitant, almost fearful.  

“Are you coming back?”  He grabbed his father’s hand.

Selwyn flinched at the small hand with red, angry scars.   _It was an accident.  Perhaps he is changed._ In Galladon’s violet eyes there was a clarity, a pureness that Selwyn had not seen before.  Yet he wondered what storm still lurked behind them.  He let go of Galladon’s hand.

“Run along with your singer,” he said.

“Come, lordlet and ladylet, let’s to the garden,” Copper Tongue said, and ushered them away.

Selwyn ascended the stairwell, but paused by a window.  He smelled something familiar in the air, far away.   _Rain._  A gust of wind blew through, cold on his whiskered cheeks.  The ocean washed the shore gently, but with irregular rhythm.  

Even though the sun still shone brightly, he knew.

_A great storm is coming._

 

-

Galladon

-

A grey bank of clouds muted the sun.

Galladon sat on a log of driftwood, watching the rise and fall of the waves.  He often came to this beachy stretch beside the docks, under the shadow of the castle.  It was rough and pebbly, with beautiful rocks, shells, and smooth sea glass that crumbled to sand at the water’s edge--treasures that he and his sister would spend hours collecting before the tide came in.

But today he wanted to be alone.  He had torn away from Copper Tongue and Brienne at his first opportunity.  The whisper and roar of the ocean soothed him more than any music now.  Sometimes he asked it questions and swore he heard answers in the waves.  Today he asked the ocean how to please his father.

He tried.  He had tried everything.  It almost seemed that the more he tried, the more he failed.  Before the accident, after the accident.  Before his sleep, and today--after he woke.   It still seemed like his father didn’t even want to look at him.

_Please.  What do I have to do?_

The ocean gave him nothing.  

The colors changed so fast out at sea.  He could see rainstorms from miles off.  They hung like silk scarves, sweeping darker and nearer with their shadowy veils.  

A rustle in the tall grass sounded behind him.  Galladon heard the cautious crunching of footsteps in pebbles, coming nearer.

“I know you’re there,” he said loudly, not turning his head.

“No I’m not,” said a small voice behind him.  

“Go away, Brienne.”

Brienne climbed up onto the driftwood log and sat beside him.  She put her small hand on his scarred hand.  She always seemed to know when he was sad.  But he still wanted to be alone, and shook her hand away.

“I said, go away Brienne.  Go find Copper Tongue.”

“Copper Tongue!” she called into the brush.  Out came the singer with his ‘cello.  

Galladon sighed, but didn’t say anything.  They both stared out at the sea together, listening to the mellow instrument mingle with the waves rushing to shore.      

“Is father going to stay?” Brienne asked her brother.  “Or is he going to leave again?”

Ocean foam washed over their toes.  The tide was coming in.

“I don’t know,” said Galladon after a pause.   _If only there was something I could do to make him stay.  If only I could be good enough._  He searched the sea for answers.  

A particularly large rock marked the shoreline.  It was remains of a castle turret, fallen from Evenfall’s old south tower during a great storm centuries ago.  He and Brienne called it Big Rock, and raced each other to the top of its crumbled spire at low tide.  He always won, but she was getting faster as her legs grew longer.

Copper Tongue started singing a song about a knight saving a maiden.  Brienne hummed along happily.  Another big wave crashed to shore.  It swirled gently around Big Rock.

Galladon sat up straight.  He looked at Brienne.  He looked at Big Rock.  

_Perhaps if father saw me saving Brienne...he would forgive me for the accident with mother._

“Brienne,” he said.  “Go climb Big Rock.”

She looked out at the sea.  The sky was going indigo.  It was beginning to get cold.

“Why?”

“Because.”

“But the water is coming higher.”

“It never covers the top of the rock.  And I’ll swim out to save you.  I’ll be the knight, and you’ll be the maiden.  Like in the songs!”

Brienne loved nothing more than playing knights and maidens.  And even though she was still too small, her big brother could swim laps around Big Rock at high tide.  He was a strong swimmer.  

His sister smiled, and took a deep breath.  She ran out splashing to the rock, water at knee height.

“Little ladylet!” Copper Tongue shouted.  He had swung his ‘cello round his back and rushed to the water’s edge.  He froze when his toe touched the line of wet sand.  Brienne was still climbing.  Water swirled higher around Big Rock, the waves crashing up more insistently.

Copper Tongue looked at Galladon in confusion.  “What game is this, lordlet?”  

Galladon kept his eyes on Brienne as she climbed all the way to the top.     

“It’s just Brienne being stupid again,” he said.  

“But the tide is coming in…”

“I know, we have to save her!” Galladon said.  He rubbed his elbow and made a face of pain.  “But I can’t get her.  I’ve hurt my arm.   You must get her, Copper Tongue.”

The singer shook his head, ashamed. 

“I can’t swim.”

Galladon knew that.

“Come save me!” Brienne called from the top of the rock, her little arms stretched wide overhead.

“In a minute!” Galladon yelled back.  He looked to Copper Tongue.  “Today you must be a hero, like in your songs.  Run up to the castle and tell my father to come down at once!  He needs to save her!  She’ll be stuck on the rock!”

The singer nodded, wide-eyed.  He ran for the steep steps up to the castle, his ‘cello swinging back and forth.  Galladon watched him.  He estimated that his father would be down in just enough time for the water to reach its highest point.  Galladon imagined plunging into the water, his father’s proud eyes on him as he rescued little Brienne and brought her safely back to shore.  

“Galladon!”

A fat drop of rain hit his nose.  He snapped out of his reverie.

“A storm is coming, Galladon!”  

Brienne sounded scared, and suddenly looked much smaller against the dark clouds looming behind her.  The sky was turning black.  The water had already swelled to its highest point on the rock, and it was still rising.

Another few drops of rain hit his face, his head, his shoulders.   

Galladon looked to the castle again.  The singer was only halfway up the staircase.

_“Galladon!”_

He looked back to Brienne.  He wanted so badly to wait so his father could see him save her.   _But what if I can’t save her?_

Rain was all around him, blurring his vision.

_I have to save her now._

He jumped into the water.

 

-

Selwyn

-

Selwyn ran his fingers along the coastline of the Stormlands, traced the outline of Tarth.  Ser Goodwin had made good on his promise to rework the relief carving of Westeros, and it was perfect down to the last detail.

_By gods, he’s even carved castles, banners for armies, fleets of ships._

Selwyn lifted a miniature ship, marveling at the evenness of the sails.  He then frowned at the enormous fleet positioned at Evenfall.  They represented the doubled fleet of ships he had seen earlier out the window.  

_We are planning an assault.  But where?_

The door swung open, and Ser Goodwin burst through.  He froze there, looking up and down his lord’s full height. His grey eyes were so wide, Selwyn could see the whites all around them.  

“Stop looking at me like I’m a ghost, Ser Goodwin.  I’m very much alive.  Where are my captains?”

Ser Goodwin swallowed.  “Securing the fleet.  A storm is coming.”

"Yes, I see that well enough," Selwyn said impatiently.  "They had better had an early start if they're not yet finished.  Our fleet seems to have doubled in size.”

Ser Goodwin opened and closed his mouth, at a loss for words.  _He is hesitant to tell me why._

“Do you remember this is the same table we supped at when you first came Evenfall?”

“Of course I remember,” Ser Goodwin said quietly.  “I swore an oath to you right where we stand.”

“We’re obviously leading an assault,” Selwyn said.  “Where?”

Ser Goodwin drew in a long breath and released it.  He leaned over the table where his lord stood.  “We’ll start where we left off,” he said, picking up a castle and positioning it at Storm’s End.  “At the beginning of the siege.”

He rattled off names of battles and houses, and rearranged ships and banners on the map.  Selwyn almost saw blood wash over the table.

_Prince Rhaegar Targaryen killed by Robert Baratheon at the Trident.  Martells slaughtered.  Targaryens fled._

Ser Goodwin pointed to the Westerlands, to Dorne, to King’s Landing.

 _Sack of King’s Landing._ _Aerys dead.  Killed by Ser Jaime Lannister._

“So it’s true,” Selwyn said in disbelief.  “Killed by his own Kingsguard.”

Ser Goodwin nodded.  

“Yet there are still Targaryens.”  Selwyn’s hand drifted to Dragonstone.

The knight tensed, his knuckles turning white on the table.  “Not for much longer.”

“What do you mean?”

“Dragonstone is the site of the assault.”

Selwyn stared at him.  Neither of them blinked.

“We built more ships to augment the royal fleet, my lord.  It was King Robert’s command.  Lord Stannis will lead the assault.”

“What are the terms?”

Ser Goodwin took in another deep breath.

“Leave no Targaryen alive, save for the heirs--who will be delivered to King Robert.”

Selwyn stepped away from the map.

“No.”

“We must, my lord.”

“No!”

“We had to choose a side, my lord.  Tarth is of the Stormlands.”

Selwyn shook his head, rubbing his eyes.  He wished he were still asleep.  

“You may not like it and neither do I, but we must support King Robert--or else we drown in this raging sea of this war.”

“I made a truce with that Dragonstone ship when we were locked in ice,” Selwyn said.  “A truce that saved our lives.  We sailed home with them.  We would all be dead otherwise.”

“That was then, my lord,” Ser Goodwin said.  “This is now.”

“How can you in good conscience condone this?  The murder of innocents?” Selwyn hissed.

“My good conscience is pledged to you and to Tarth,” Ser Goodwin said.  “I tried to keep us neutral for as long as possible.  I knew it was your will and I tried--”

“You did not try hard enough.”

“I was left to rule, to pretend to everyone that you were not dead--”  

“I was not dead.”

“You may as well have been!” Ser Goodwin blurted.

Selwyn wiped the ships from the map with one arm. They clattered to the floor.

“Get out,” he said.  

“I am sorry, my lord.”

“Your service here is no longer needed.  Get out and do not come back.  You are not the knight I thought you were.”

There was a long silence with only the rain spattering on the shutters to mark it.  Then Ser Goodwin moved to leave, his boots falling softly on stone.  

The door cracked hard against the wall, wind rushing in along with--

“M’LORD!”

It was the singer, his plaited hair a wild mess like a bird’s nest torn apart by the wind.  He fell on the floor at Ser Goodwin’s feet, ‘cello on his back.

He stuttered and stammered, completely out of breath.

“It is the lordlet and ladylet m’lord, they are at the shore by the docks on the big rock, m’lord, and the waves and the wind and I can’t swim--”

Selwyn tore past the knight and singer to the open door.  Black clouds rolled across the sky like enormous clenched fists.  He could see down the steep staircase.  He could see the docks.  He could see the large rock, and two blonde heads on the top, surrounded by swirling waves.  

He ran for them.

“My lord!”

Ser Goodwin shouted protests behind him, and Selwyn could vaguely hear the singer making apologies, but they were all noises in the wind.  He forgot his body’s weakness and rushed down the steps quick as water--his legs had known this staircase since boyhood, yet never in his life had he descended it so fast.  Though the wind was strong and threatened to blow him away, some force within drove him straight and steady all the way down to the beach.

His children clung to the top of the rock, wet clothes and hair clinging to their little bodies.  They braced with every crash of waves.

“Galladon!  Brienne!  Stay there!” he shouted.  He reached the nearest dock.  It would take too long to untie a boat.

“M’LORD!”

Copper Tongue still descended the staircase, holding his ‘cello by the neck and bottom.  He threw the hollow, wood instrument down to Selwyn, and Selwyn caught it.  He looked at the 'cello in bewilderment for a moment, then ran with it to the edge of the dock.

_Gods give me strength..._

He jumped.  The sea swelled all around him, pushing and pulling. Yet the wood was buoyant between his knees as he paddled.  He breathed in and spat out the salt water, throwing his arms one in front of the other, tearing through the sea of shadows which blurred his vision.  But he could see the wet blond heads, still there, holding on.  Another wave, and they were still holding on.  

He slammed against the almost-submerged rock, and the ‘cello splintered into pieces.  He reached for his children with both arms.  Galladon grabbed his left, Brienne his right.  

Another wave loomed over them.  He closed his eyes and tucked his head against the children’s. “Hold on!” he shouted, but he could not even hear his own voice.  The wave smacked down, and they all clutched together.  Selwyn felt a weightlessness as the ocean exhaled them from the rock.  He held his children tightly to his chest, an arm around each.  If the sea wanted them, it would have to take him, too.

Through the clamor, he heard a man shout.  Through the wash, he saw a hull.  It was Ser Goodwin, and the boat was almost close enough to touch.  

The knight reached out and caught the neck of Selwyn’s tunic.  But it was not enough.  The waves twisted and pulled him.   

“MY LORD!  TAKE MY HAND!”

Selwyn would have to reach an arm to meet his.  But he had no arms left. They were both folded tightly around his children.  He looked at Galladon, his son, his heir.  His violet eyes were dark as the angry storm.

“Don’t let me go, father, don’t let me go!”  Galladon pleaded.  “It was all Brienne’s fault!  It was!”

Selwyn looked at Brienne--her sapphire eyes wide and fearful, braving the fury of the storm.  

“I’m sorry, father!  I promise I’ll be good!” Galladon pleaded.  “Father, PLEASE!”

He felt Ser Goodwin’s grip on his collar loosing.  

“TAKE MY HAND MY LORD!  YOU MUST CHOOSE!”

It was a moment that lasted an eternity.   His eyes were full of water.  

_Choose or drown in the raging sea._

Selwyn forced his left arm to unfold.  The waves swallowed Galladon in an instant.  

 _“Galladon!”_ Brienne screamed.

Selwyn reached for Ser Goodwin’s grasp, while struggling with the other arm to hold Brienne.  She was writhing and screaming, struggling to swim after Galladon.

_“No, no, no!”_

The knight pulled them up.  Selwyn held Brienne tightly as she cried and thrashed, trying to break free.  He searched the waves.  He could not see the boy.  

The boat tossed in the massive churn and barely reached the docks before they stumbled out, racing the storm back to Evenfall.  He looked over his shoulder at the sea.  A monstrous, dark violet wave reared up like a horse, foaming angrily.

Ser Goodwin took Brienne from Selwyn’s arms and pushed him to the staircase.  “Don’t look!  Keep going!”  

The wave cracked against the cliff.  Water rushed over their feet, but the force did not take them down.  

They clamored up the steps into the wind.  Selwyn felt his legs giving out, his strength leaving him.  It was all he could do to stay upright in the whipping wind, rain, and sea spray.  But Ser Goodwin was right behind him, holding Brienne and pushing him forward.

They reached the summit.  Selwyn was breathless and in pain.  Maester Osmynd held the door open for them at the west tower.  Rain flooded inside.  The singer was already there, soaked and trembling, looking small without his ‘cello.  

Brienne had stopped thrashing in Ser Goodwin’s arms, but she was still crying.  “Galladon,” she whimpered, clenching her little fists in the knight’s soaked leathers.

Selwyn took the door, looking out at the sea.  Such a storm he had never seen, and it was raging harder yet.  All was rain and darkness.

“Shut up your doors, my lord,” Maester Osmynd shouted through the wind.  “It is a wild night.”

Selwyn closed his eyes, and shut the door.

 

 

 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 


	6. The Evenstar's Curse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After war and unfortunate events, it's difficult for life to return to normal on Tarth. Ser Goodwin gets crafty in order to help Lord Selwyn. 
> 
> Brienne is 5.

-

Ser Goodwin

-

The Sept of Tarth was quiet and dry.  Afternoon sunbeams stretched through the opening in the domed ceiling, casting light on the seven marble statues.  They were tall and beautifully carved, their stone gazes fixed on the center of their circle.  Ser Goodwin finished his prayers, and lighted a candle for the Warrior.  Next to him stood Lord Selwyn, his head bowed before the Mother.  He was as tall as the aspects themselves, but his build had weakened.   Everyone was thin after the long winter and the war, but Lord Selwyn had suffered more than most.  Without the bulk and muscle he once had, he looked like a soldier pine that had lost its fir and branches.  

Ser Goodwin heard his lord’s murmured prayer.

_“Forgive me for failing to protect him.”_

Even in this peaceful place of worship, Ser Goodwin could close his eyes and see the dark, blurring hell of wind and rain.  It was exactly a year since the Great Storm.  Galladon’s body never washed ashore.

“You did everything you could have done, my lord,”  Ser Goodwin whispered.  “And you saved your daughter.”

He glanced to five-year-old Brienne.  The small girl lingered between the Maiden and the Warrior.  She walked around them in loops, her hand tracing their stone bases.  Lord Selwyn’s lips twitched into a brief smile as he watched her.  “Thank gods for that.”  His eyes drifted back to the face of the Warrior, then to Ser Goodwin.

“I would offer a prayer of gratitude to the Warrior, but what need when the real warrior stands before me in flesh and blood?”

“The storm would have swept you away.  It was my duty, my lord.”

“I don’t mean the storm.  I’m talking about the war.”  A knowing light flickered in Lord Selwyn’s sapphire eyes.

It was the closest Lord Selwyn had come to addressing their quarrel over the Dragonstone assault.

 _We must choose a side_ , Ser Goodwin had said.  _And you know which one._

 _You are not the knight I thought you were,_ Lord Selwyn replied.  _Get out._  

The words felt like a thousand daggers piercing Ser Goodwin’s heart,   

But the storm stopped him from leaving.  Within the hour, the knight was straining out of a small boat, desperately trying to pull his lord from the treacherous waves.  Lord Selwyn held his children tightly, not an arm to spare.  For the second time, the knight begged his lord to choose. And then he watched him give the sea his son and heir--the troubled boy with violet eyes dark as the storm.   

They were barely dry and back at Evenfall when the Evenstar commanded the Sapphire fleet to set sail for Dragonstone, where Tarth arrows and swords helped the new King wipe every last Targaryen from the shores of Westeros.  And the war was over.  

Ser Goodwin did not question the change of heart.  He knew his lord better than he knew himself, and he knew that his knightly counsel was only second to that of the sea.  Lord Selwyn had a fear, a respect, and a love for it like other men had for the gods, and what was more--the sea was part of him.  The day it took his son, it must have commanded him to take a side.

At least he had not slipped into the same deep grief that nearly swallowed him after his wife’s death.  Was his son’s blood truly rotten with Targaryen madness?  Or was the child victim to terrible circumstances, made worse by boyish willfulness?  Ser Goodwin didn’t know.  He looked down at Brienne.  She traced her fingers gently over the smooth sword of the Warrior, the stony dress folds of the Maiden.  Whatever had possessed her brother--evil or injury--there was not a scratch of it in her.  She was calm and good, with a pure childlike wonder and curiosity.  Yet sometimes her young face darkened with weighty solemnness--for she remembered the storm, too.

 _I’ll do everything I can to protect you, little star,_ Ser Goodwin thought.  _And your father._

There were a few others in the Sept—townsfolk who had lost their loved ones in the storm.  One woman stood before the Stranger, her hands on her son’s shoulders.  Tears streamed down her face.  Ser Goodwin recognized her and leaned over to Lord Selwyn.

“That woman lost her husband,” he whispered.  “He was a good sailor.  The storm took him as he was helping secure the last of the fleet.”  

Lord Selwyn looked on her in empathy.  The woman’s eyes were closed tight, and she chanted something inscrutable, lips moving fast and shaking.  She stood before the aspect whose face was entirely hooded.  Ser Goodwin frowned.

“Still, it’s not every day you see someone pray to the Stranger.”   

“Grief does strange things to people,” Lord Selwyn said. “I should know.”  He went to her, and softly touched her on the shoulder.

She gasped and recoiled, eyes wide open.  She slid back a giant step, gripping her son tightly.  The other townsfolk in the Sept, a pair of fishwives, turned to stare.  

“I’m--sorry for surprising you,” Lord Selwyn said.  “I only wish to offer my condolences.”  

Ser Goodwin watched him step toward the woman again but she withdrew, eyes even wider.  She was trembling, and chanting faster, more quietly.  

“Come Alfyn,” she said to her son.  “It’s time for us to go.”  And with that, they hurried out the sept.  

Ser Goodwin turned to the fishwives.  “What was she saying?” 

The two women only looked at each other, then to the ground.  They whispered quick prayers to the Stranger and turned to follow the first woman.  Ser Goodwin and Lord Selwyn stared after them.  

“Many have prayed to the Stranger in the wake of the Great Storm,” a voice said behind them.  They turned to see the septon--a small man with a shiny bald head and watery eyes.  “They seek answers to the unknown, in the unknown.”

“What was she chanting?” Lord Selwyn asked.

“I believe she was warding off demons.”

“Demons!  Seven hells indeed,” Ser Goodwin scoffed.  “What stupid folly.  Shall we go, my lord?”

But Lord Selwyn was pale and silent.  The knight rolled his eyes.   _Tarths and their superstitions._

“Are there demons on Tarth?” asked Brienne.

“There’s no such thing, little star,” said Ser Goodwin.  

“Then why was the woman trying to send them away?”

Ser Goodwin didn’t have an answer for that.  

The septon smiled graciously on Brienne.  “Demons in the realm of the living may or may not be real.  But there is nothing that cannot be cured by prayer.”  He looked to Lord Selwyn.  “You should find her a Septa, my lord.  She is almost at an age.  I have some recommendations.”

Ser Goodwin nudged Lord Selwyn.  He snapped out of his thoughts, looking at the septon and then Brienne as if noticing them for the first time.  

“Perhaps.”  He frowned at the statue of the Stranger.  “Yes, I’m finished here, Ser Goodwin.”

They left.  Once outside, Ser Goodwin watered the horses and fed them a few apples.  The day was hot, and they were in the very middle of the isle—a two-hour ride from Evenfall.  Lord Selwyn mounted his horse, and Ser Goodwin lifted Brienne up onto the saddle so that she sat snug in front of her father.

“Will a septa teach me to ride my own horse?” she asked.  

“No.”

“Will she teach me to sail?”

“That’s not what septas are for, little star,” Ser Goodwin told her.  “Teaching you to ride is my job when you’re old enough.  Ser Endrew will teach you to sail.”

“But when?”

Even despite her near-death in the storm, the girl had an insatiable desire for the outdoors.  Almost as if she were trying to prove her worth to the forces of nature.

“Soon,” he assured her, then looked to Lord Selwyn.  He was quiet and lost in thought again.

“My lord?  Are you all right?”

“Yes, it’s just--I have a chill, it was very cold in the Sept.”  

 _Not so cold as chilling_ , Ser Goodwin thought.

“Let’s to Hydda’s,” Lord Selwyn said.  “I need a hot drink before we start back to Evenfall.”

Ser Goodwin groaned, and Lord Selwyn stole a smirking glance at him.  “Far too long since Hydda has seen her favorite knight.”

Hydda owned the only inn this far inland.  She was a good and kind woman, but big and beastly.  And she took no trouble to hide her fancy for Ser Goodwin.

“If watching a fat, hairy hag fawn over me rids you of your chill--I will oblige, my lord,” Ser Goodwin grumbled.  

They sloped down the hill away from the Sept, into a shadowy vale.  A breeze rippled hauntingly through the trees.  Ser Goodwin imagined that the leaves were chanting, and it gave him a shiver.  He shook it off.   _Stupid folly._

They passed a few townsfolk on foot to the sept.  The folk averted their eyes and stepped widely around the path.  The man rendered a rushed greeting of _“good day m’lord”_ as they passed, but that was all.  Lord Selwyn’s shoulders stiffened, and his head turned as if to call after them—but he said nothing.  

 _That’s the third slight today,_ Ser Goodwin thought.  _What is wrong with these people?_

He wanted to ask for his lord’s thoughts on the matter, but Brienne was with them.  She was so small and impressionable, and now surrounded only by adult conversation she was full of questions and eager to understand the world.   _Best not to fill her head with nonsense about demons and superstitions.  Perhaps she does need a septa._

They arrived at the Hydda’s Inn, a stone cottage with a low thatched roof.  “Looks like we’re the only ones here,” Ser Goodwin said as they hobbled their horses.  “Perhaps she’s not open, let’s go.”

“My _favorite_ guests!”

The squeal came from the inn’s entrance, where a large woman with a mess of dark brown hair, thick eyebrows, and beefy hands held the door open.  

“Have you meat and mead to spare today?” Lord Selwyn asked.

Her fat face burst into dimples and doubled chins.  

“Of course--always for his lordship,” Hydda answered, stepping aside for them.  She looked at Ser Goodwin.  “And I’ve always something for my handsome knight.”  She stuck out her ample bosom and lowered her chin in seduction.  Ser Goodwin cringed.  

“How are you, Hydda,” he said stiffly.

“Much better now that you’re here,” Hydda said huskily.  She reached out to pinch him.  He jumped away.

Lord Selwyn suppressed a grin while walking through the door.  Forgetting his great height, he hit his head on the frame.  He winced.

 _Serves him right,_ Ser Goodwin thought.

“Mind your head, m’lord,” Hydda chided. “And look at the little lady, getting so big!  She’ll soon be hitting her head on doors just like her father.”

Brienne smiled shyly as they settled into a booth.  Hydda brought them ale and hot tea.

“So what brings you out this far today, m’lord?  A visit to the sept I reckon?”

“Indeed,” he replied.  “A year since the storm.”

“Aye, no one on Tarth is like to forget a storm like that,” Hydda said.  She bustled around the room, hurriedly clearing tables of plates and cups--many of them containing unfinished food and drink.

 _People were just here,_ Ser Goodwin realized.  

His eyes met Lord Selwyn’s.  He had noticed it, too.

“We’re not the first guests here today, are we Hydda?”  he asked.

“Just had a big group right before you came, m’lord,” she said, tittering nervously.  “They were leaving as you were arriving.”

“And they left that much unfinished ale?” Ser Goodwin said.  He nodded to the drinking horns, many of them half full.

Hydda’s brown eyes flickered.  Ser Goodwin knew she could not lie.  

She glanced at Brienne.  “Mayhap the little lady would like to fetch an egg or two from the chicken coop?”

Brienne beamed, her face alight and pleading as she looked to her father for approval.  He nodded, and she scurried out the door and out of earshot.

“Now,” Lord Selwyn said, turning back to Hydda.  “I suppose your guests saw us coming down the path and left.”

“Yes, m’lord.”

“Why?”

Her face darkened.  

“Tell me the truth.”

She sighed and sat in the booth, resting her big, hairy forearms on the table.  She managed to make eye contact with the Evenstar.

“Your people think you’re cursed, my lord,” she whispered.

A silence hung in the air.  

“What madness,” Ser Goodwin said. “First demons, now curses.  Bloody ridiculous people.”

“Tarths can abide a great many things,” Lord Selwyn said darkly.  “They cannot abide a cursed Evenstar.”

Ser Goodwin looked at him incredulously.  “By gods, you believe it too.”

“I do."

“You are not cursed, my lord.  You’ve just had a run of bad luck, like anyone else.”  

Lord Selwyn raised his eyebrows.  “A run of bad luck?  My wife and three of my children have died in as many years.  I nearly died myself--several times.”

“All right, then-- _very_ bad luck,” Ser Goodwin said.  “Still, it’s no reason for your people to fear there’s some demon at work.  Hydda, do you believe this nonsense?”

The woman watched her lap, wringing her apron in her meaty hands.  It was in need of a wash.  She looked up to Ser Goodwin and Lord Selwyn and grimaced a half-smile. 

“I believe that being a lord doesn’t steel you ‘gainst hardship,” she said.  “But you ought to be careful, m’lord.  You know how it is when rumors fly on Tarth.”  

“Words are wind,” Ser Goodwin said.  

“And the wind blows strong on this isle,” Lord Selwyn added ominously.  “Helaena always scolded _me_ for being superstitious.  I am nothing compared to my people.”

“What is superstitious?”

Brienne stood at the door with at least a dozen eggs nestled in her blue skirt, exposing her scraped knees.  Her blonde hair looked a mess of straw, and she had dirt smudges across her face.  She’d pass for a stable boy were it not for her dress.

Her father sighed.  “Perhaps it is time to get you a septa.”

They paid and got up to leave.  Ser Goodwin lingered behind a moment.

“Yes, my sweet knight?”  Hydda said, sidling up beside him.

He sighed in dismissal of her advances.

“Can you tell me--where do such rumors come from?”

“Where all rumors come from,” Hydda said with a shrug.  “Fishwives.”

 

-

 

Ser Goodwin peered into the belly of the ‘cello, making sure the soundpost was still in position.  

Maester Osmynd held the instrument steady by the neck.  “What a man of talent you are, Ser Goodwin.  Knight, woodcarver, castellan, boatsman—now a luthier!”

“One man in his time plays many parts,” Ser Goodwin said, inspecting his work.  

He brushed wood dust from the instrument’s smooth surface.  Copper Tongue had forsaken his ‘cello in last year’s storm, and Ser Goodwin was committed to making the singer a new one.  It had taken him an entire year in his wood workshop between the inner and outer walls of the castle--but he was finally finished.  

“There you are, Copper Tongue,” Ser Goodwin said, presenting it to him.  “A new ‘cello, carved from the finest spruce and willow.”

The singer took the gift, admiring it from scroll to bottom.  He strummed his thumb across the strings.  They resounded richly.

“Ah, and I almost forgot,” Ser Goodwin said.  He reached back for the bow, and held it out on both palms like it a sword.  “Strung with the hair of the Evenstar’s own horse.  His lordship wanted you to remember his gratitude.”

Copper Tongue accepted it.  “Thank you Ser,” he said.  He didn’t even bother finding a seat, just crouched over the new instrument and started playing, filling the air with joyful music.  The maester laughed.

Brienne was there, too, swatting a stick back and forth near the stone wall.  She stopped her duel with a bee to listen to the song.  

“I have just enough wood to make a gift for you, too, little star,” Ser Goodwin said.  “What would you like?”

The bee assaulted her again, and Brienne’s stick snapped on the wall, missing its target.  She watched the bee fly away.  “A sword,” she said.

“Little girls don’t play with swords.”

“I’m not little,” she protested.

“How about a doll?”

She scowled.

“Two dolls, then,” he said.  “I think you will like them.”

He leaned back in his chair, chipping away fiercely at a block of wood.  Maester Osmynd watched.

“I’ve always found woodcarving fascinating to observe,” he said.

“I suppose it is.”

“The art seems to be in seeing the desired shape in the wood, and cutting the excess.”  

“Indeed.”

The maester paused a moment before he spoke again.  

“You’ve been carving the whole day long, Ser Goodwin.  Something troubles you.”

Ser Goodwin stopped whittling, briefly. _He knows me too well._

“Tell me more about the Evenstar’s curse,” he replied.  From the corner of his eye, he saw the maester’s gaze fall to the ground.  “You know every bloody person on this island.  You can’t tell me you haven’t heard it.”

“The whole of Tarth is in whispers,” the maester admitted, shaking his head. “I’ve never seen the like of it.  I’ve tried to understand it, what can be done to quell it--but the people turn their backs even to me.”

“We were at Hydda’s yesterday.  She says it’s fishwives that started it.”

“Of course it is.  The worst rumors always start in the fishwife netting circles.”

“Why can’t we ask them about?  Set them straight on the matter?”

“Heavens, Ser Goodwin!  One doesn’t catch a bird by walking up to it and asking it to jump into one’s hands.  One must dress in feathers and be part of the flock.”

Ser Goodwin stopped whittling to consider what he meant.  He frowned.

“You mean dress in skirts and rags and join their netting circle for a good gossip?”

“Desperate times call for desperate measures.”

He stared at the maester.  His brown eyes twinkled, and Ser Goodwin saw some mischief behind them.  Even though age had greyed his hair and the sun had leathered his skin, the man was still young at heart.

“By gods.  You’ve done it before?”

“A man in his life plays many parts, as you said,” the maester said.  “In fact, I was planning on donning my skirts tomorrow for a good weave and gossip.”

Ser Goodwin laughed.  “I always knew there was more to you than long robes and maester chains,” he said, then set aside his work and rubbed his hands free of dust.  “Brilliant.  I’m coming with you.”

Maester Osmynd frowned.  “Oh no, you’re not.”

“Oh yes I am.”

“You’re too big to fit in with a flock of birds, Ser Goodwin.”

He shrugged.

“Tarth women can be rather big.”

Maester Osmynd scratched his chin, looking him up and down.

“All right, then.  I think I have a dress will fit you.  But leave the talking to me.”

 

-

 

The next day saw them changing into skirts, wigs, and bonnets at the foot of Evenfall’s cliffside staircase.  They were behind a large rock, hidden from view of the castle and docks, but Ser Goodwin still looked around nervously.   _The last thing we need is for the Evenstar to see us._  His underskirts and pink cotton dress were scratchy, and the long yellow wig with white cotton bonnet was worse.  He peered at his reflection in a still pool of water.   _Simply hideous,_ he thought. _Almost as hideous as Hydda._

Maester Osmynd was dressed in a dusty brown dress and a grey wig.  He looked rather convincing as an old woman.

“Honestly, where did you find these things?” Ser Goodwin said.

“Shhh, keep your voice down,” Maester Osmynd whispered, glancing back up to the castle.  “From a visiting mummer’s troupe years ago.  And I always keep a stash of sailcloth and netting material on hand.”  He nodded to the wheelbarrow next to them, overflowing with all sizes of fine ropes and canvas.

They finished dressing, and hobbled around the coastline to the main port.  It was a rocky path that only Maester Osmynd knew, and a difficult trek with the wheelbarrow.  Every time Ser Goodwin bent over to dislodge its wheel from rocks and mud, his underskirts would chafe uncomfortably.  _Bloody unbearable,_ he thought.   _Thank gods I’m not a woman._

Within the hour, they stood before a small, ramshackle cottage at the main port.  It had thick moss clinging to its shingles, and wood panels splintering at the ends.  The faded blue door was badly lopsided, and a woman leaned out the window above to dump a bucket of brown gloop.  It splashed into a puddle before them, some bits splattering onto their skirts.  Ser Goodwin recoiled.

“So this disgusting chicken coop is the Tarth center of influence, is it?”

“Shhh!”  Maester Osmynd hissed.  “You’re in character now, remember?  Just follow me and don’t say a word.”

They entered the cottage. The inside was dank and smelled of low tide and rotting fish.  Dozens of women bustled about like hens, arranging chairs and fussing over a giant web of netting that spread over the floor.  Ser Goodwin looked for a place to sit and not be noticed.  "Over here," Maester Osmynd said under his breath, gesturing at a chair.  "Just bow your head, grab a portion of the net and pretend to do something with it.  And remember--"

“I won’t say a thing,” Ser Goodwin promised.  

He sat down, and bowed his head, watching Maester Osmynd out the corner of his eye.

“G’afternoon ladies!  I’ve got you some new cloth and threads.”

Ser Goodwin marveled at the transformation of the maester’s voice.  He really did sound like an old woman.  

"Olyve!” a woman’s voice said.

“So good to see you after so long,” said a second voice.  

“What fine material!” the first said, fingering the canvas.

“They look like they could come from the castle itself," said the second.  

They spoke in quick, overlapping rhythm, like clucking hens.  Ser Goodwin stole a glance at them.  The two women were obviously top of the pecking order, sitting nearest the window, the plum position in the circle.  And Ser Goodwin recognized them.  

_The fishwives from the Sept two days before._

"Aye, I plucked a few from carts headed that way,” Maester Osmynd said.

"Crafty wench you are.”

"We was just talkin' about the castle.”

"Got some new gossip for me?"  Ser Goodwin could hear the anticipation in Maester Osmynd's voice, changed though it was.

"Penny and I saw the Evenstar himself at the sept the other day," said the first.

"Henny speaks true!” said the second.  “A poor sailor’s wife was just praying for her lost husband, and he grabs her by the shoulders and starts shaking her!"

The circle gasped.  Ser Goodwin tightened his grip on his end of the net.  All the women started clucking at once.

_“He’s cursed, I tell you!”_

_“It’s true.”_

_“Possessed by some demon!”_  

"What’s all this talk of curses and demons?" Maester Osmynd said.

"Haven't you heard of the Evenstar’s curse, Olyve?” said Henny.  “The island’s fallen into ruin for him and his spoiled blood.  It was that wretched son of his that caused it all.  The day of the tourney he maimed the herald gull, and the Evenstar had to kill it.  That was the day winter came back and the war started.”

“Then he went off sailing and got stuck in ice,” said Penny.  “They say he made a truce with a Targaryen ship to get out of it."

_"Sold his blessed soul that day!"_

_"Came back to his wife all burnt up.”_

_“Newborn babes died soon after.”_

_“And then he died, too!  Then came back to life!”_

“I heard he was only ill for a time--” Maester Osmynd said.

“Not no one can tell me he was ill or sleepin', he was dead!” said Henny.  “He was dead, and then he came back, alive and walkin’, just like a ghost!"

The circle clucked and chortled in agreement.

"That was the day the Great Storm came and killed his son," said Penny.

"Thank gods for that.  But did you know, I got a right chill when I heard that was also the storm that bore the new daughter of dead Aerys.  What's her name?  Darina or Deanna or--"

"Daenerys," Maester Osmynd offered.

"Daenerys, that's it!  Little Targaryen princess born on the same day young Galladon died.  And then she escaped the Dragonstone assault with her brother and wet nurse!”

“A storm death and a storm birth and Targaryens still live--it means somethin’ I tell you."

Ser Goodwin caught a chill himself.  He knew it was purely coincidence--children are born every day, and there are deaths every day.  But listening to the fishwives spin their stories he began to understand how someone could believe them.   _Someone who has nothing better to talk about…_

"And all he has left is that little girl.  Who knows when she’ll go, too.”

_“Won’t be long!”_

_“He should marry again.”_

_“Father some heirs by a new lady!”_

"He won't marry again.  He loved the Lady Helaena too much.  We all loved her," Maester Osmynd said.  Ser Goodwin thought he heard a tinge of protest in his voice.  “She was a good woman.  Not a curse in her body."

Henny scoffed.  "A good woman to be sure.  But she had that awful Targaryen blood.  He needs to remarry, have new sons.”

“But Olyve speaks true, everyone knows he’ll never remarry,” Penny said.  

“Tarth will fall to ruin for his grief.”

The hens all clucked in agreement once more.

"You're wrong!" Ser Goodwin shouted.  He was as surprised as any to hear the strange falsetto come from his own throat.  The room fell silent.  All the women turned to stare at him.

Maester Osmynd’s eyes widened. His face reddened.

"What was that?" the Henny said, squinting at him.

“She’s just a simpleton, pay her no mind,” Maester Osmynd said.

“No, I know this one,” Henny said, looking him up and down, frowning.  Ser Goodwin’s heart pounded wildly in his chest.

_She recognizes me from the sept.  It’s over.  I’m a proud knight about to be brought to ruin by a fishwife._

"On my soul.  Is that Hydda's sister?"

"I didn't know Hydda had a sister," Penny said, frowning.

"She does, an older an' more comely one,” Henny said, wagging her finger at him.  “And on my life, this big woman's the spittin' image of Hydda.

“You’re right!” Penny said, snapping her fingers. “I simply forgot is all!  What's your name again, woman?"

"Er...Grytta?" Ser Goodwin said.

The circle cooed in recognition.

_"Grytta, that's it!”_

_“How could we forget?”_

_“I known her all my life!”_

“Olyve, why didn't you tell us she was Hydda's sister?" said Henny.

"I…simply forgot," Maester Osmynd said.

"Well how is the hairy hag?” asked Penny.  “She never comes to net with us no more.”  

“Probably because she can't find a husband."

“I heard she found herself a horse instead.”

The circle burst into laughter.  Ser Goodwin felt a pang of pity for Hydda.  No wonder she preferred to live inland, away from such nonsense. The wretched women really did believe anything.  

_Anything._

It was then that he had an idea.  

“I hear the Evenstar _will_ remarry again,” he said.  

The circle gasped.  Maester Osmynd stamped on Ser Goodwin’s foot.

_“What?”_

_“Who?”_

_“When?”_

“How do you know?” Henny said.

"I heard him say it myself, at Hydda’s yesterday.”

 _“What are you doing!”_ Maester Osmynd hissed.  

 _“Play along!”_ Ser Goodwin said under his breath.

The circle seemed to come closer to him.  The women's hands worked faster, and they all leaned in, chattering in excitement.

_“The Evenstar was at Hydda's?”_

_“It’s true, I saw him going there from the sept yesterday--”_

_“--with his daughter and master-at-arms.”_

" _Everyone knows his knight is having a roll in the hay with old Hydda.”_

"He is not!" Ser Goodwin shouted in his real voice.  The women stared.  He cleared his throat. “I mean, he is not!” he said in falsetto.  “Anyway, the Evenstar was going on about the new lady he's wooing!  Says he's going to bring her to court and make her his new lady wife."

_"What lady is this?"_

_"Where is she from?"_

_"A Stormlands lady?"_

_"Perhaps from the East?"_

_"Oh, not the East, I pray."_

"He was very secretive about it,” Ser Goodwin continued.  “But he means to marry and have trueborn heirs by a highborn lady."

Maester Osmynd pinched him harder.  _"Shut your mouth!"_

_“Trust me!”_

“Gods be good, the curse is ended!” Henny exclaimed.  

“When will the lady arrive?” Penny asked.

"The first summer's day," Ser Goodwin said.  "And there will be a great feast at Evenfall to mark it!  The end of war, the beginning of new beginnings.  All of Tarth is to be invited."

_"Oh!"_

_"A new Lady Evenstar and a feast!"_

_“And we’re all invited!”_

_“What will I wear?  I shall have to start knitting a new dress."_

_"I need new shoes."_

"If you’ll excuse us, we really must be going," Maester Osmynd said, tugging on Ser Goodwin's pink sleeve.  "Come, _Grytta."_

The women were so busy talking, they barely noticed their departure.

The knight and maester stumbled back along the coastline to Evenfall.   The old man seethed in silence, not even speaking to Ser Goodwin until they reached the large rock where they stashed their clothing under the shadow of the castle.

"What in Seven Hells did you think you were doing?" Maester Osmynd said.  "I told you to leave the talking to me!  Do you realize what you've done?"

Ser Goodwin looked up the steep staircase.   _All clear._

"Aye, I know exactly what I’ve done," he said, removing his wig and scratching fiercely at his short hair.  "I've given the fishwives something new to talk about.  Something less damaging than curses."

"Something _less damaging_?"  Maester Osmynd repeated.  "Now all of Tarth will think that Lord Selwyn is bringing a new lady to court.  You know as well as I do that'll be the day ships sail to the moon."

"It won’t be if we convince him it’s for the good of Tarth," Ser Goodwin said.  

The maester scoffed.

"Come, what's the only thing that fishwives like to talk about more than curses?"

Maester Osmynd frowned, and then it softened.  Something turned in his eyes.

"Love," he replied.

"Exactly.  And if we can make them believe that Lord Selwyn plans to take a new lady wife, it will keep them from all this nonsense about curses.”

"A new lady, and a celebration to mark the beginning of summer..."  

“The people will love it,” Ser Goodwin said.  “And what’s more--they’ll see that he’s committed to securing his line."

“So that Tarth may be safe,” the maester said softly.  He looked at the knight.  “By gods, you may be right.  But will he do it?"

"He's a part to play just like the rest of us," Ser Goodwin said, gesturing to the costume he still wore, the bosom stuffed.  “If it'll keep Tarth from falling to ruin, Lord Selwyn will do it."

"Lord Selwyn will do what?" a deep voice said behind them.

The knight and master turned in horror to see the Evenstar himself, towering over them.  Brienne stood next to him, holding his hand.  Father and daughter were wearing matching sailing garb and matching frowns.

"Why are Ser Goodwin and Maester Osmynd wearing dresses?" she asked.

"I don't know, Brienne," he said.  His eyes twinkled in amusement.

 

-

 

An hour later, they sat at the docks watching Brienne have her first sailing lesson with Ser Endrew--the youngest member of Selwyn's guard, and the best sailor.  Ser Goodwin had changed back into his knight’s livery, and Maester Osmynd donned his brown robes again.  

"Let me see if I understand this correctly," Lord Selwyn said.  "You dressed in woman's clothes, sat in a fishwife netting circle, and spread false rumors about me to all of Tarth?"

"Not _all_ of Tarth,” Ser Goodwin said sheepishly.  “Just the fishwives.”

Lord Selwyn leaned over, rubbing his face with his large hands.  "The other day in the Sept I said a prayer of gratitude to the Warrior for your presence,” he said with a groan.  “I ought to have prayed to the Maiden instead for your safety, as I should now like to have you hanged."

Ser Goodwin grimaced.  

"And Maester Osmynd--you allowed this?"

"I thought it was absurd at first, my lord," the maester said.  "But it's not a bad idea.  If the people of Tarth see that you have a new lady, they may feel a sense of hope for the future.  A new beginning."

Lord Selwyn shook his head.

"I don't understand," he said.  "Lord Tywin Lannister never remarried after the death of his wife.  It was all the same to Casterly Rock."

"Tywin already had three children, including two sons."

"A Kingslayer and a dwarf?" Lord Selwyn scoffed.  "Some heirs those are."

"Yet they are his sons," said the maester.  "And his daughter is queen of the realm.  His line is more secure than yours.  You have one small daughter, even if she is feisty."

They watched Brienne scramble to upright her boat after it capsized.  The boom swung over the hull, and hit Ser Endrew in the face, knocking him back into the water.  Ser Goodwin had to admit that the child had a lot of strength.  It was too bad she was a girl, and couldn't train to fight.

"You are not 40 years old, you can easily marry again."

"I don't want to marry again."

"The people of Tarth need to see that you're at least trying to start anew, have more heirs."  

"Brienne is my heir," Lord Selwyn said.  "She's all I have left of Helaena."

"Of course,” Ser Goodwin said gently.  “But it's more about keeping up appearances with your people, giving them something _light_ to talk about.  They’ll probably forget the whole business with curses once we give them a distraction.”  

“But one never knows,” the maester said.  “We may even be able to find you a lady that you like."

Lord Selwyn sighed.  He scratched his head.

"How widely have these rumors circulated already?"

"Not too far yet," Maester Osmynd said. "We've only just come from port.  But fishwife gossip beats faster than raven's wings."

They heard the crunching and scattering of pebbles behind them, and cheerful singing.  

"Hello, Copper Tongue," Lord Selwyn said as the singer drew near.  "Enjoy your afternoon off?"

"Aye my good lord!" he said, swinging his new 'cello off his back and settling it between his knees.  He sat on a driftwood log beside them.  "I've roamed the hills, the streams, the meadows, and collected plenty new songs and tales for the ladylet!"

"Very good."

"But speaking of ladies--is it true there's to be a new Lady Evenstar?" the singer asked.  

Lord Selwyn buried his face in his hands again.  

"Who told you?"

"Oh, everyone!" Copper Tongue said.  "Even the country folk at the far end of the isle.  And I've the most perfect song to play for her arrival, m'lord!"  

He brought his bow to the strings, and began to play them a joyful song of summer love.

Lord Selwyn slouched in his chair and crossed his arms.  

"When is this duty expected of me?" he grumbled.

"First summer’s day," Ser Goodwin said.  “We...may have promised an open feast as well.”

“An _open_ _feast_?”

“To show off the new lady, and celebrate the new season," Maester Osmynd said.

“But we don't even have a--" Lord Selwyn abandoned the protest.  "This is the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard.”

“Would you rather have your people continue to recoil from you along paths, and spread talk of the Evenstar’s curse?”  Ser Goodwin asked.

Lord Selwyn paused a moment.  He sighed.

"All right, all right,” he said.  “But while you're at it, inquire after a septa."  They watched Brienne scramble back ashore, bruises and scrapes already showing on her legs and arms.  Her blue eyes shone brightly.  Ser Endrew was close behind, dragging the small dinghy.  His brown hair was slicked black, and he had scrapes and bruises of his own.  He looked tired.

“She wear you out?” Ser Goodwin asked.

“Aye,” Ser Endrew said, touching his hand tenderly to his brow.  He bent over a still pool of water to check his reflection. “Didn’t think training a little girl would give me a black eye, but it did.”

“The ladies will love you more for it, I’m sure,” Ser Goodwin said dryly.

A decent knight though he was, Ser Endrew had more than his share of vanity.  His tall, dark good looks won him plenty of attention from the ladies, and he knew it.

"Did you see me, father?" Brienne asked excitedly.

"I did," Lord Selwyn said, smiling, "Ser Goodwin will soon be teaching you to ride horses."

"Horses!" she said.  "And swordfighting, too?"

“No, not that,” Lord Selwyn said.  “You’ll be learning sewing instead.”  

Disappointment crossed Brienne's face.  Ser Goodwin felt a pang of pity for her.  

They all made their way to the staircase, and Ser Endrew stepped aside for Ser Goodwin to go first.  He had a smirk on his face.  "My lady," he said, bowing his head deeply.

Ser Goodwin pinched his ear and pulled hard.  "Remember, not a word of what you saw to any of the guard," he growled into it.

The smirk disappeared from Ser Endrew's face.  "On my life I swear it."

Ser Goodwin let go and pushed him forward.  He waited for Brienne, and put a hand on her shoulder.  She turned, looking up at him with those big blue eyes.  He kneeled to her, and took two dolls out of his cloak.  They were replicas of the Warrior and the Maiden.

"Here, little star.  The other day in the Sept, I noticed you liked these aspects best of all."

She took the gifts and admired them, looking from one to the other.

"There are changes coming soon," Ser Goodwin continued.  "Be a good girl, learn your courtesies and…” he looked up the staircase, making sure her father was out of earshot.

“I'll give you a sword when you're old enough,” he said, winking at her.  “It'll be our secret.”

Brienne smiled.


	7. The Septa and the Lady

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two women arrive at Tarth. A celebration at Evenfall. Brienne POV.

-

Brienne

-

Two women came off the ship that day—one for Brienne, and one for her father.  A septa and a lady.  Brienne and her father stood at the dock, watching them row to shore while Ser Goodwin and Maester Osmynd stood close behind with the horses.  A small crowd was gathered to the side, mostly women in dull brown dresses who whispered behind their hands.  It reminded Brienne of a mummer’s show that had once come to the castle.  The people gathered at the port were the audience; she, her father, and the women from the ship were the players.  Brienne scratched at the neck of her dress.  It was itchy, and the day was already hot--even in the morning light.

Her father smiled and kissed the hand of the lady as her feet touched gently to the dock.  She made a deep and graceful curtsy in her spruce green dress.  She had porcelain skin, dark eyes, and long black hair that fell down her back in a tumble of rich curls. Lord Selwyn was so tall, she looked rather doll-like by comparison and he had to bend to whisper in her ear.  She laughed, and twirled a lock of raven hair around her finger.  The septa glanced at them sideways, then turned her gaze to the Evenstar's daughter.  

Brienne held her breath.  

The septa was neither old nor young, and rather seemed an ageless statue in her long grey dress.  An ivory head scarf squarely framed her face of small, neat features.  Her nose was pink at the tip, and her eyes were a yellow shade of hazel. _Like cat eyes_ , Brienne thought.  

She leaned over Brienne, hands on her knees.  She smelled of soap.

“Hello, little one.  I’m to be your new septa.  You may call me Septa Roelle.”  

“Brienne,” she answered quietly, and managed a curtsy.  Septa Roelle clicked her tongue and smiled primly.

“Your first lesson will be how to keep your back straight when you curtsy.  It’s like this—watch.”  She dipped, eyes latched on Brienne’s.  

Brienne copied her.  

“Better.”  Septa Roelle glanced at Brienne’s dress.  “Lucky for you, I’ve sewn you a lovely new dress for the feast tomorrow.  We’ll try it on when we reach home tonight.”

It was strange to hear the septa refer to Evenfall as _home_ when she only just stepped ashore to Tarth for the first time.  Brienne looked over at the lady, who laughed delicately as her father helped her onto her horse.

 _There are changes coming soon,_ Ser Goodwin had told her last year.

She reached in her skirt pocket and felt for the wooden dolls he carved her, and drew them slightly from her pocket.  She smiled to see their heads poking out from the fabric.  

The warrior had a face of firm solemnity, with features chiseled deep.  His shoulders were squared, muscles tensed and hand gripping the hilt of his sword.  The maiden was smaller and wore a soft smile, her tiny hands clasped on the smooth wooden folds of her flowing dress.   The warrior stood for strength and bravery, and the maiden represented innocence and goodness.  Together, they set the world to rights.  There was so much in Brienne’s own little world that seemed so full of shadows and mysteries.  But those shadows dissolved into light when she gazed into the wooden faces of her dolls, and she felt pulled into a world of song.  The songs she and Galladon used to sing before the storm.

_The storm._

It still swirled in her memory--always there, a churning darkness haunting her dreams.  She had watched Galladon slip from her father’s grasp--or did her father let him go?  No, that couldn’t be.  She remembered the feeling of straining after him, trying to save him, but almost being swept away by the same force.  She looked at the warrior doll again, her thumb grazing the sword, the armor.  If only she could learn to fight, perhaps she could be strong enough.

“Come little star, up we go,” Ser Goodwin said, breaking her trance.  He gently took her by the waist, and lifted her up onto her pony.  “We’ve a long way to go yet, make sure you’re comfortable.”

She settled into her saddle, holding the reins gently but firmly like Ser Goodwin taught her.  They were all ahorse now.  

Brienne’s father the Evenstar turned his large white horse about to face their audience.  A hush fell over the crowd of brown-dressed peasants.  The hammering and shipwork stopped, and fishermen turned to watch.  Even the seagulls seemed to pause their constant cry, and settled on tall wood posts sticking up out of the harbor.  

“Tomorrow we celebrate the first of summer with a feast at Evenfall,” he announced.  “You are every one of you invited to Evenfall Hall for meat and mead, to toast the end of the long winter and darkness, and welcome the beginning of fruitful summer.”  He smiled at the lady.  She smiled back.

“Lady Nathaleya of House Fell and I also celebrate our betrothal,” he said.  His voice faltered as something caught in his throat.  

“When is the wedding?” asked one of the fishwives.

He cleared his throat and continued.  “We will announce the wedding date tomorrow.”

The crowd broke into excited murmurs.  The port went back to its usual thrum of hammering, shipyard work, and gull cries.  The Tarth party started up the path toward Evenfall.  But Brienne’s eyes lingered on a group of nearby children, playing a game with blindfolds, laughing and singing songs. 

“Come, Brienne, don’t tarry,” Septa Roelle said, starting forward on her horse.  

Brienne watched the children a second longer, then reluctantly turned forward on her pony.  She felt a pang of envy, then a whisper of hope in her chest.

_Perhaps they will be at the feast tomorrow._

 

-

 

“You’re bigger than most six year olds,” Septa Roelle said, tugging and pulling at the ends of Brienne’s dress.  Her touch was sharp, like a bird’s pecking beak.  

Brienne stood on a stool in front of a looking glass, her eyes wide at the reflection.  It was the most beautiful dress she had ever seen.  Fine lace trimmed the heavy, silky fabric, and the colors of the bodice were quartered azure and rose like the Tarth sigil.  Gold sunbursts and silver crescent moons were embroidered all around the shoulders and the skirt.  But the sleeves stopped well before her wrists, and the hem exposed her ankles.  

Septa Roelle crossed her arms and sighed.  

“I spent months on this dress, and now it’s too small.  I’ll just have to mend it.”  She stuck a pin in the sleeve.  It pierced into Brienne’s skin.

“Ouch!”

“A lady must suffer some pain for beauty,” the septa mumbled, pins between her lips.   

“Will there be children at the feast?”  Brienne asked.  “Children my age?”

“Of course,” the Septa said.  “But you’re not to play with them.”

Brienne’s heart sank.  “Why not?”

“You are the daughter of a noble lord.  You play with children of your own birth.”

“But there _are_ no other children of my own birth,” Brienne grumbled.  She didn’t know why it mattered so much.  When you played games like monsters and maidens, it didn’t matter who your father was.  

“And that’s why your father has invited the lady.  So that he might marry her and make little brothers and sisters for you to play with.”  

“She’ll be my mother?”

Brienne didn’t remember much of her own mother.  A certain gentleness and strength, perhaps--the feeling of being held.  But not what she looked like or the sound of her voice.  Her father never talked of her, and Brienne was somehow afraid to ask.

“Mother in a sense, I suppose,” Septa Roelle said, and stuck more pins into the dress.  “Lady Nathaleya of House Fell is a young, pretty thing, and highborn—but she twirls her hair too much.  Likely had a terrible septa.”

The dress started to itch.  Brienne lifted an arm back to scratch behind her shoulder--but Septa Roelle caught her hand and clutched it firmly.

“Don’t.”

Their eyes met in the mirror.   

“There are certain things that a noble birth will afford you, little one.  Marriage to a lord is one of them.  We need to prepare you early, and break bad habits before they start.”

“I’m only _six_.”

Septa Roelle leaned in, and turned Brienne’s chin to look her directly in the eye.  Her fingers were soft and cool, her eyes honey-gold. 

“You’ll be on view for all your people at the celebration.  You need to make a good impression for your father.  You want that, don’t you?”

Brienne nodded.

“Good,” she said, and continued sticking in pins and adjusting fabric with her pecking hands.  “Always remember, a lady’s honor is courtesy.  Tomorrow night will be your first opportunity to practice that.”

 

-

 

Brienne gazed in wonder at the castle courtyard.  Before, it had always been so empty and quiet.  Tonight, it was full of life and color.  Silvery ribbons stretched between the trees and hedges, rippling merrily in the light summer breeze.  The walls were lined with bouquets of flowers and paper lanterns.  People she had never seen bustled between oak tables, and a large portion of the green was sectioned off for dancing.  Best of all, the fireflies were out. They glimmered and dimmed in the purple twilight, and children made a game of catching them.  They lifted their cupped hands and their faces glowed from the bugs.  Brienne looked at them wistfully, wishing she could join.

She felt a light tap on her shoulder, and turned.  

“Copper Tongue!” she said.

The singer smiled down at her, holding his bow and ‘cello as always.  But tonight he looked different.  His unruly hair was finely combed, and he wore matching shoes and fine dark livery.  

"The copper has been polished silver tonight, my lady," he said, rendering a deep bow.

“You look so...so…”

“Courtly?” he suggested.  He loftily threw back his shoulders, turning up his nose with a foppish frown.  "This night, we are civilized!  Poised for elegance!  We shine so the stars may envy our beauty!"

Brienne giggled.

"And you--you are the brightest of stars tonight, ladylet.  Your hair is spun gold atop your little head.  And look how the moons and suns of your dress glimmer!"

"Septa Roelle made it for me," Brienne said.  "She stayed up the whole night to lengthen the sleeves and hem."

"Ah, Septa Roelle,” he said, rolling his eyes.  

The singer and the septa had taken an instant disliking to each other upon their first encounter.  They were opposites in every way--Septa Roelle repulsed by his whimsical nature, and the singer averse to her chiding formality.

"What is it that all septas say?” Copper Tongue said, frowning in concentration and scratching his chin.  “A lady's honor is curtsy?"

"Courtesy!" Brienne burst out.

“Ah yes!  That’s it.  How could I be so silly!”

“Will you sit at table with us?” Brienne asked.

“I’m afraid not, ladylet.  I am to play the dances this evening,” he said, and hopped a small jig.

Brienne sighed.  “I would rather play than dance,” she said, looking over at the children again.

“Why don’t you?”

“Septa Roelle says I musn’t.”

“And I say Septa Roelle is _silly._ ”  Copper Tongue bulged his eyes and flared his nostrils in feign contempt, and Brienne laughed again.  

Chimes sounded behind them.  Servants began to come out of the stone keep with domed platters.

“Well, m’ladylet--I must go put on my silver tongue and provide your feasting music!” the singer said, sweeping into another deep bow.  “But if you need Copper Tongue--just give him a wink.”

He winked at her.  Brienne grinned.

She went to the head table to take her seat next to Septa Roelle.  Her father sat in the middle with Lady Nathaleya, followed by Ser Goodwin, Ser Endrew--who was Evenfall’s new sailing master--and Maester Osmynd.

Never in her life had Brienne seen so much food.  There was a galette of creamed summer vegetables, honeyed duck with snap peppers, trout baked in clay, lamprey pie--and on and on.  The dishes came out quicker than she could finish them, especially with Septa Roelle lecturing her on proper eating etiquette.

“Hold your dagger lightly, like it’s a delicate feather.  Mind the angle.  Chew more slowly!  Keep a straight back--you’re a lady, not a slouching peasant.”  

At one point a pea rolled off Brienne’s fork and into her lap.  Septa Roelle flicked it away as if it were a poisonous spider.

“That will be the last thing you spill,” she said lowly.  “I spent too many hours on your new dress for it to be soiled.”

Indeed, her yellow eyes were bloodshot with exhaustion.  It made her look fierce.

Brienne glanced to Copper Tongue, seated adjacent to the head table with the other chamber players.  He saw her and the Septa.  He screwed his face up into an ugly scowl, eyes bulging and lips pushed out.  Brienne giggled.  Septa Roelle followed her line of sight to the singer, seeing his mocking countenance for an instant before it turned smooth and expressionless again.  

She glared at Brienne.

Brienne looked down at her plate.

“I’ve half a mind to tell your father to find a new singer.  He’s a bad influence.”

Brienne opened her mouth to protest, but stopped when she saw the Septa smile sweetly--looking way, way up.

Lord Selwyn stood behind her, Lady Nathaleya by his side.

“I see you’ve already made a lady of my daughter, Septa Roelle,” he said.  

“Yes, my lord,” she said.  Her voice was smooth and low.

Brienne sat up straight, and put her cutlery gently in her plate the way the septa had shown her.  

“And what fine work is this,” Lady Nathaleya said, caressing the shoulder of Brienne’s dress with a graceful finger.  “You must sew one for me, Septa Roelle!”

Septa Roelle smiled tightly at the lady, but did not speak.  She turned her gaze back up to Brienne’s father, and Brienne saw her yellow eyes change.  For a moment, they were not sharp and piercing like cat eyes, but soft and glowing like rising moons.  She wondered what it meant.  The lady didn’t look at her father like that.  She wore a demure smile and coquettish dimples, but her eyes were still as shallow pools.  And everywhere her father looked, he seemed to be looking far, far away.  

 _“Let the dances begin!”_ cried a voice from the chamber players.  The courtyard burst into music.  

“Well,” her father said, holding out his arm and turning to the lady.  “Shall we?”

She smiled and took his arm, and they floated down the center of the courtyard.

Septa Roelle watched them, twisting her handkerchief in her hands.  Her eyes had turned sharp again.

She caught Brienne staring at her.  

“Don’t stare, it’s unladylike,” she said.  She looked over at the knights’ table, where Ser Endrew now joked and drank from his cup with the guardsmen.  Every now and then, he glanced to the ladies waiting to dance and swept his fingers through his fine dark hair.  

“If you’ll excuse me, I need to speak with Ser Endrew a moment.  I’ll return shortly.”

Brienne sighed in relief to be alone without Septa Roelle, even if only for a minute.  She let herself slouch a little, and gazed over the heads of the dancers to the group of children playing at the far end of the courtyard.  It looked like they were playing rats and cats, a chasing game.  She felt another pang of envy.

“Enjoying yourself, little star?”

She straightened immediately.  Ser Goodwin sat beside her.

“Good evening, Ser Goodwin,” she said in her most ladylike voice.  He laughed.

“Don’t worry about that now, your septa seems to be out of earshot,” he said.  

She relaxed a little.

“Tell me the truth.  Do you like her?”

_No._

But Brienne remembered what Ser Goodwin had said a year before.   _Be a good girl, learn your courtesies, and I will give you a sword._

She felt for the dolls in her skirt pocket.  Perhaps this was a test.

“Yes,” she lied.  “She’s very nice.”

Ser Goodwin frowned.  “Really?” he asked.  

Brienne nodded.

He shrugged.  “All right, then.  I just wanted to make sure.  I know she’s strict, but it’s only because she wants to make a good impression--being new to court and all.  I’m sure she’ll ease up a bit after tonight.”

“When will you teach me to swordfight, Ser Goodwin?”

He looked at her with a bewildered expression.  He opened his mouth to answer.

 _“My knight!”_  a shrill voice cried.  

Ser Goodwin turned bright red as a large woman with heaving bosoms came lumbering towards them.  His eyes darted around, looking for a place to hide.  

He wasn’t quick enough.  Hydda was already at the table, leaning seductively on a meaty forearm and blocking Ser Goodwin’s escape.  

“You promised me a dance,” she said.

“I remember no such thing,” he scoffed, leaning away.

“You did so!”

“I’m quite sure I didn’t!”

“Just as well,” Hydda said, straightening and looking to the yard.  “But those fishwife gossip-mongers are all here.  I can certainly tell them all about your little secret from last year...”

Ser Goodwin jumped up and took her by her thick waist.

“All right then,” he said.  “ _One_ dance—but that’s it.”

They left for the green.  Brienne was alone at the table.  The grown men and women laughed, drank, and danced.  She saw her father kiss the lady’s hand and excuse himself from the green, disappearing somewhere into the keep.  The lady stood to the side waiting, twirling her hair, until Ser Endrew approached and asked her for a dance.  

 _This is so boring,_ Brienne thought with a sigh.  She could still see the children playing in the far corner.  One small boy bumped into a servant carrying dessert, and the tray’s contents spilled to the ground.  Brienne giggled. But then she saw a knight approach the children, ushering them out the courtyard doors to the outer walls, where the animal sheds were.  

 _They’re getting farther from me,_ Brienne thought. _And they’ll all be gone tomorrow._

She felt an icy presence beside her.  Septa Roelle had returned.  

“Are you sure I can’t go play with other children?” Brienne pleaded.  “I couldn’t just put on another dress?”

The Septa slowly unfolded her handkerchief in her lap and smoothed it.  She looked to the green, seeming not to have heard Brienne.  

“Now, here’s a test, little one,” Septa Roelle said.  “Which woman would you rather be—Lady Nathaleya, or Hydda?”

Lady Nathaleya was small and elegant, the picture of perfection.  She laughed daintily as Ser Endrew swept her about the green.  Hydda was large, and didn’t float lightly on her feet.  But the innkeeper was kind to Brienne, always giving her sweets and letting her collect eggs from the chicken coop at the inn.

Still, Brienne knew the right answer.

“The lady,” she said dutifully.

“Very good.  Remember that, and remember which side of the castle walls you reside in.”

The song ended, and the dancers returned to the tables.  The seating arrangement at the head table was different now.  Hydda had taken the liberty of following Ser Goodwin back to his seat, but no one protested.  Even Ser Goodwin seemed to have given up.

Ser Endrew sat next to Lady Nathaleya, whispering in her ear.  She laughed, and leaned into him a bit. Septa Roelle glanced at them, wearing a small smile.  Maester Osmynd sat on Brienne’s other side, and prattled on to the septa about members of the faith they knew in common.

The largest chair was vacant.

“Where is my father?” Brienne asked Maester Osmynd.

“Preparing for his announcement, most likely.”

“An announcement?” Brienne said.

“You’ll know it’s time when the bugles sound,” he said with a wave of his hand, then turned back to Septa Roelle.

“So what are your origins, Septa Roelle?” he asked her.  “Before your training?”

“House Caron,” she replied shortly.  “Lord Bryen Caron is my brother.”

They talked over Brienne’s head as she slouched and sank in her chair.  The Septa didn’t seem to notice.

 _Perhaps they won’t notice if I completely disappear,_ she thought.

“House Caron of Nightsong!”  Maester Osmynd said, impressed.  “Then you are Roelle Caron--a rare _lady_ Septa!”

“I’m afraid not,” she said.  “I was Roelle _Storm_.”

Brienne sank a bit lower in her chair.  And a bit lower.  Her nose was level with the table.

“Ah,” he said.  “I am sorry--forgive my nosiness.”

“It’s quite all right.  I was lucky enough to even be allowed at Nightsong.  It afforded me many luxuries of a noble upbringing, if not all of them.”

They still didn’t notice Brienne, her eyes peeking above the table.  The only one who saw her was Copper Tongue, though he was still sitting with the other chamber players.

Brienne winked at him.  The singer nodded.

“Curious coincidence,” Maester Osmynd said.  “His lordship just yesterday sent a raven to Nightsong.  An invitation for Lord Bryen Caron and his youngest son Benfred to visit Evenfall.”

“Not a coincidence at all,” Septa Roelle said.  "It was my idea."

Soundlessly, Brienne slipped under the table and got on both hands and knees.  Torch light filtered through the white cloth skirt of the table and illuminated the feet around her.  There were the Septa’s shoes, plain black but immaculate and pinned close together.  Maester Osmynd’s grey shoes were soft and worn, his old man’s ankles thin.  Hydda’s large ankles spilled over her brown shoes, and Ser Goodwin’s legs were tucked tensely under his chair, as if he were poised to leap away at any second.  The lady had her legs crossed, angled to Ser Endrew’s boots which were polished to a high sheen.  Then Brienne saw her father’s long legs and his boots, larger than anyone else’s, as he returned to his seat.  Lady Nathaleya quickly crossed her legs the other way towards him, and Ser Endrew’s boots disappeared.

_“Pssst!”_

It startled Brienne.

_“Pssst, ladylet!  Over here!”_

Copper Tongue poked his head under the far end of the table.

She smiled and crawled toward him, careful not to stain her dress on the grass or brush any feet.  

“Do you still want to play with the children, ladylet?”

Her face brightened.  “Yes!”

He looked around.  “Quickly, then, no one is looking!”

“Are you sure?”  She felt her hair begin to loosen from the pins on her head, and she tried to fix it.  

“Don’t worry, I’ll distract them!”

Brienne knew it was her one chance.

She scrambled out from white cloth, running for the hedges.

“Fly ladylet, fly!” he urged her.  “Play, and be free!”

She clung to the perimeter of the courtyard walls, taking one last glance behind her.  Copper Tongue had already positioned himself and his ‘cello at the other end of the table, drawing everyone’s gaze away from where Brienne hid in the shadows.

“And here’s a song of summer love, written for this very occasion!” He played and sang with even more spirit and energy than usual, and the table clapped along to the jaunty beat.

Brienne took in a deep breath.  She turned and ran along the perimeter of the walls, crouching low in the shadows of the hedges.   Tendrils of hair fell loose from their pins, but she didn’t care anymore.  The tables were all full of people and their laughter and clinking cups, but no one saw her.  Brienne took one last look at the courtyard, and slipped through the open doors to the outer walls.  

She heard small voices, and slowed to a walk as she approached the children.  There were about twenty of them, a mix of boys and girls grouped near the horse stables and the pig shed.  Some were her age and some a couple years older—but they were all dressed far more modestly than she.  She stopped and stood still.  Now that she was within their sights, she didn’t know what to say.  

A tall, dark-haired boy was giving orders to the group, a shorter curly-haired boy beside him.

“Girls against boys,” he said.  “The girls are the maidens, and the boys are the monsters.”

“But that’s not fair!” one girl cried.  “To have all boys against all girls!”

“Boys can’t well be maidens, can they?”

The curly-haired boy saw Brienne.  His eyes widened.

“Wait—whoa, everybody stop!” he said.  

The rest of the children turned to stare at Brienne.

Her heart pounded in her chest.  Her dress began to itch again, but she resisted the urge to scratch at it.  

“It’s the _Evenstar’s_ daughter.”

“My—my name is Brienne,” she said quietly.

“Everyone knows who you are,” the tall, dark-haired boy said.  “My name’s Alfyn.  And this here is Timyn.  We’re the leaders of this lot.  What do you want?”

“I just...wanted to play,” Brienne said.

There was a silence as they all continued to stare at her.  

“Look at her dress!” a girl said.  

“It’s so beautiful!” said another.

“Please let her play with us!”

The two boys looked at each other and shrugged.  

“Well come on, then,” Alfyn said.  “You’re a girl, so go join the maidens.”

Brienne beamed.

The game started.  The object was for the maidens to outrun the monsters before they got tagged and turned into stone.  The frozen maidens could not run again until an unfrozen maiden tagged her, and the game ended once all the maidens were stone.  

It should have been over quickly--the boys had more strength, and far more agility dressed in britches rather than dresses.  But Brienne was fast.  She carried the girl’s team, outrunning every single child.  The boys could never catch her--she knew every root and rock, even in the dark, and dodged them effortlessly when others stumbled.  And as soon as the boys tagged the girls frozen, Brienne tagged them free.  Her legs never tired, but her cheeks hurt from smiling and her belly ached from laughing--in the most wonderful way.  Playing with the children was every bit as good as she ever imagined it.  

“She’s just too fast,” Alfyn grumbled as the boys all slowed to catch their breaths.  

“It’s not fair, she knows the grounds too well,” Timyn said, kicking at a stone that had tripped him.

Many of the boys had scraped knees, and dirt all over their faces from tripping and skidding into the ground.  

“You’re just upset that a little girl in a fancy dress is faster than you!” taunted one of the girls.  “She hasn’t even fallen once!”

The girls all circled Brienne, flooding her with questions.  

_“What’s it like living in a castle all the time?”_

_“Have you been to every room?”_

_“Your dress is so beautiful.  Can I touch it?”_

She smiled and answered as best as she could.  Brienne was curious about them as they were about her--she wanted to ask what it was like to always be surrounded with children to play with, dawn to dusk.  

“Oh--what are these?”

A girl had found the dolls in her skirt pocket.

Alfyn snatched them away.  “Well, well, look what I found--a warrior and a maiden!”

“No!” Brienne said.  “Those are mine!”

“Finders keepers!” Alfyn taunted, holding them out of her grasp.  He looked to the shed by the pig pen.  “We know how fast you can run.  Let’s see how fast you can climb.”  

He launched the dolls overhead, and they clattered on the slanting roof, sliding down the shingles.  The rain gutter stopped the dolls’ descent only by a hair, and they hung there perilously over the filth and muck of the pig pen.

Brienne started for them.  

_“Brienne don’t do it!”_

_“You’ll ruin your dress!”_

But she had already hopped up onto the thin railing of the pig pen, pleas and leers behind her as she teetered toward the dolls.  

She collapsed one arm onto the side of the shed, grabbed her dolls with the other.  Cheers erupted behind her.  She held the warrior and the maiden close, inspecting them.  They were clean.  She sighed with relief.

Bugles pierced the air.  She jumped, and then remembered. 

_Father’s announcement!_

Brienne had completely forgotten.  She was supposed to be there--the last thing she wanted was to rush in late.

She let go of the wall and turned on the rail.  Her foot hit a chink, and she lost her balance.

The world turned upside down as Brienne flailed her arms, falling into the pen with a great _glop_.  

She heard laughter and jeers, and struggled to sit up.  Her dress was heavy with the foul brown sludge.  She looked down at the dolls in her hands.  They were covered in it.  She heard the boys’ laughter and leers through loud hog snorts as she wiped the slop and manure from her face.  It was all over her hair, too, and reeked something awful.  

The bugles blared again.

She tried to get up, but the filth was sticky and sucked her back in.  Alfyn and Timyn and the rest of the boys hooted with laughter, slapping their knees.  The girls looked on in disgust and pity, but none came forward to help her.  

“EVERYBODY OUT!” a man’s voice shouted.  

It was Ser Goodwin.

The children all rushed away.

“Oh dear,” the knight said softly, extracting her from the mud with his strong arms.  “You know you’ve had your lord father frantic with worry?”

“I’m sorry,” she said, and felt tears clearing paths down her filthy cheeks.

He said nothing more, but carried her back to the courtyard entrance and set her down.  There was a chorus of gasps, and then silence as everyone turned to stare at her.

“You’ll need to walk the rest of the way,” he told her.

She held out her arms, and tried to wipe away the filth.  It was useless.

The courtyard erupted into deafening laughter.

They kept laughing louder and louder as Brienne walked down the center of the green with her head down, leaving a trail of filth behind her.  Even through the noise, she feel the silent stares of the head table as she drew nearer.  She dared to look up.  Lady Nathaleya was expressionless, just sitting primly with an unblinking stare as she twirled her hair.  Ser Endrew stifled a laugh.  Maester Osmynd bowed and shook his head.  Septa Roelle fumed, her eyes burning into Brienne like torch arrows. Even Copper Tongue wore a wincing face, and the crickets seemed to sing in pity.  

But the look of disappointment in her father’s eyes was worse than all of that.  

“Get upstairs,” he hissed once she came close enough to hear him.  She averted his eyes, and ran.

 

-

 

Brienne squirmed as Septa Roelle scrubbed her skin fiercely with soap and a scouring brush.  The water was brown.

“Ruined,” Septa Roelle said.  “That beautiful dress--absolutely _ruined_.”

“I’m sorry,” Brienne said, for what seemed the thousandth time since returning from the feast.

“Sorry?” She repeated shrilly, wringing dirty water from Brienne’s hair.   _“Sorry?”_

“I only wanted to play with the children,” Brienne said.  

Septa Roelle stopped wringing and scrubbing, and grabbed Brienne by the shoulders.  “Listen to me, little girl.  You’re not _like_ them.  You’re a _lady_.  Or you will be one day once I’m through with you.  You have opportunities I never had.  Do you understand?  Do you?”

Brienne didn’t really understand, but she dared not say anything, for fear of crying.  A sob already tugged at her throat, and tears pricked her eyes.  But then she remembered the warrior. A ball of heat burned thick inside Brienne’s chest.   

She took in a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and violently whipped her wet hair from side to side.  Dirty water flew into Septa Roelle’s face.

The septa stood with a start, wiping her face and glaring daggers at Brienne.  

Brienne cowered, thinking she might be slapped.  Instead, Septa Roelle stormed out of the room.  The door shut with a cold echo.  Brienne sighed in relief.  

She leaned out of the tub and reached for her wooden dolls, still mired thick in filth.  She dipped them into the brown and dirty water.  She couldn’t see their faces, but she felt their features and scrubbed them gently.  She lifted them and held them up to the firelight, burning steady from the corner hearth.  The maiden was worse for the wear, but the dirt made the warrior look a bit tougher.

Brienne heard voices behind the door.  She got out of the tub, slipped a shift over her head, and crept to the door.  She pressed her ear to listen.

“It was that dreadful, ugly singer who let her out of my sight.  You ought to dismiss him from your service, my lord.”

“Perhaps," her father said.  "But she has an adventuresome spirit.  Would that she had been a boy, she could fight it out in the sparring yard.”

“Don’t encourage it, my lord.  It’s much harder to betrothe a girl with a broken nose and filthy dresses.”

“Thank you for your patience, Septa Roelle.”

“Of course, my lord.”

She heard heavy footsteps come closer toward the door, and she jumped away as it swung open.  She looked up fearfully at her father and opened her mouth, but the right words wouldn’t come out.  He gave her a tired smile.  

“It’s all right, Brienne,” he said, entering the room.  He softly closed the door behind him, and knelt down so that his gaze was almost level with hers.  “I’m not angry with you.”

“Septa Roelle is angry with me,” Brienne said, still looking down.

“She only wants what’s best for you.”

 _How does she know what is best for me?_   But she heard the weariness in her father's voice.

“I’m sorry I ruined your announcement,” she said.  

“In a way, I’m glad that you did,” he said.  “It bides me more time.”

“More time for what?”

“Nevermind,” he said, and took a pause.  “I’ve invited Lord Caron to court.”

_Caron._

The name rang familiar in Brienne’s head, but she couldn’t quite remember why.

“He has a son not much older than you.  They’ll be here in a few months’ time.”

“Really?” Brienne said, her face brightening.  Finally, a playmate.  “I can play monsters and maidens with him when he comes?”

“Yes.”

“And rats and cats?”

“Just don’t ruin any more fine dresses,” he said, and laid a gentle hand on her back. “Brienne, you must promise me that you will listen to your septa.  That you will try and be a lady.”

For once, he was looking right at her, and not through her.  It was so rare they were alone together, and she opened her mouth to ask him something, anything--about her brother, her mother.  The septa and the lady.  But she couldn't summon the right words.  Her father was so tall and noble and strong, and she feared that saying the wrong thing might disappoint him.

“ _Promise_ me,” he said again.

“I promise.”

He kissed her on the head, and left.  Brienne was alone with her thoughts, her dolls, and the distant roar of the ocean outside her window.  The moon was just a sliver of white hanging in the darkness.  

That night, she dreamt that her dolls came to life--the warrior and the maiden in flesh and blood, just her size.  They were all swimming and laughing in the ocean together, with the sun going down.  But then, the warrior and the maiden dove deep beneath the water. Brienne followed them, diving deeper than she thought she could ever swim.  She followed them until the waters turned dark and cool, and it was then that warrior and the maiden swam off into different directions.

She hovered in the darkness, wondering which way to swim.  But she waited too long.  The warrior and the maiden disappeared, and all around her was the choking blackness, her breath tightening and running out.

Brienne’s eyes flew open.  She shot up out of bed, gasping and sweating cold.  Her hair and shift stuck to her neck and back.

Morning light streamed through the window, blue and gold.  Early birds were singing their worm songs.  She heard the clash and clang of thin steel.  She got up and went to her window.  

Her bedchamber window overlooked Evenfall Hall’s sparring yard.  Knights were shouting commands, training young squires to fight.  They were getting stronger, faster, more sure of themselves with every stroke.

Something ached in her to watch it, knowing she couldn’t train with them.  But she wanted to.  She was tired of feeling helpless like a leaf in a storm. 

She remembered overhearing what her father said the night before, outside her door.

_Would that she had been a boy._

 


	8. Bloodlines and Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne/Selwyn/Ser Goodwin POV.
> 
> Brienne is betrothed to young Benfred Caron of Nightsong. The two explore her father's armory and find an interesting shield. 
> 
> Lord Selwyn and Lord Bryen Caron exchange dark secrets of their houses.

-

Brienne

-

Benfred Caron had soft brown hair, pale skin, and a large mole above his lip.  At age 10, he was three years older than Brienne--yet slightly small for his age while Brienne was tall for hers, so they stood at a height.

They faced each other between the marble aspects of the Father and Mother in the Sept of Tarth.  Her father the Evenstar and Benfred’s father Lord Caron of Nightsong were both there, and so were Lady Nathaleya and Septa Roelle.  All were dressed in finery except for the septa, who simply wore her long grey habit and white scarf.  They stood to the side of the stony room while the septon stood over the children and said some brief words to make their betrothal official in the eyes of men and gods.

Brienne noticed the Septon’s shiny bald head, and how it caught the light.  She found it strange that septas wore wraps around their heads, while septons wore nothing at all.

“Why do septons shave their heads?”  Brienne asked Septa Roelle on the ride back to Evenfall.  It was another hot summer day, and a breeze moved lazily through the grass and leaves of trees.

“To show the Father they have nothing to hide, of course.”  

She spoke distractedly, staring straight ahead with a soft moonglow in her eyes.  Brienne followed her gaze.  Her father sat tall and straight as a soldier pine on his large white horse.  His great height made the slight Lord Bryen Caron look rather like a toy soldier on his horse.  Lady Nathaleya rode slightly behind them both on her small grey palfry, doll-like as ever with the skirt of her spruce green dress fanned about her and black curls bouncing on her shoulders.  

“But can’t the Father see through hair?” Brienne asked.

Septa Roelle squinted at her sideways.  Her eyes sharpened to bright yellow, like a cat’s.

“Don't ask such questions.  People with you are slow to learn.”  

And with that, she clopped crisply ahead on her horse, riding to the lady’s side.  She smiled and engaged her in hushed conversation.  The lady laughed and twirled her hair.    

It had been almost a year since the arrival of both the Lady and the Septa.  Her father was betrothed to Lady Nathaleya, and Brienne thought at first that she was to be her new mother.  But there had been no marriage ceremony as of yet, and the lady simply attended the Evenstar at formal dinners and events like a jewel on his hand.  Yet outside of these formal events and the occasional dinner, Brienne rarely saw her father anymore.  He was more like some very tall mythical creature of Tarth, with his blue robes, long golden-grey hair, and deep-set eyes the color of the sea.

Meanwhile, Septa Roelle followed Brienne from dawn to dusk like a shadow.  There were endless lessons in sewing and embroidery, reading and writing, and poise.  Thankfully, Maester Osmynd took over houses and history, and she still got to sail with Ser Endrew and ride horses with Ser Goodwin.  But the relief was brief, and then Septa Roelle’s yellow eyes latched onto her again.

But today, the Septa’s attention seemed elsewhere.  Brienne wasn’t sure why, but she was glad for it all the same.

She glanced to Benfred, riding beside her.  He was soft-spoken and shy, but he seemed nice.  It didn’t bother Brienne that she would be married to him once she came of age.  It was her duty as as her father’s daughter, and she desperately wanted to make him proud.  

Brienne still remembered what she overheard him say last year-- _would that she had been a boy._ It hurt her to think about it, but in dark moments she often wondered if her father would have rather had Galladon live.  She didn't quiet remember what had happened in the storm, why she survived and her brother didn't.  But the past was gone.  The only thing Brienne could do now was resolve to be the best, most obliging daughter she could be.  

She forgot that she was still staring at Benfred, and he caught her.  He blushed and gave her a small smile, then turned his eyes straight ahead again.  

 _He is nice,_ Brienne thought.   _Perhaps he’ll want to play games with me and Copper Tongue._

“Do you like songs?” Brienne asked.

He looked at her, startled by the sound of her voice.

“You come from Nightsong, so you must,” she said.  “We have a very good singer at Evenfall.  He plays the ‘cello and sings the most lovely songs.”

Benfred smiled so wide, the mole above his lip touched his nose.  

“I love songs,” he said.  “We always have at least three singers at Nightsong, all the time.”

“Three singers!” Brienne exclaimed.  Just one singer was a gift, but three sounded like pure luxury.

“Nightsong is known for singers and warriors,” Benfred said proudly, sitting up a bit taller in his saddle.  “So of course we have plenty of singers, so they can tell the warriors’ stories.”

It was the most Brienne had heard him speak since he arrived at Evenfall a few days prior, and she was thankful for it.   _He likes music and stories just like me,_ she thought.  

“Do you know the song Galladon of Morne?” Brienne asked.

He shook his head.

“It’s my favorite,” Brienne said.  “It’s about a perfect knight named Galladon.  The Tarths are all descended from him.  The Maiden of the Seven herself fell in love with Ser Galladon for his valor, and gave him an enchanted sword.”

“An enchanted sword!” Benfred said in awe.  “Do you still have it?”

“Of course not,” Brienne said.  “It’s just a story.”

“If it’s just a story, then how can Ser Galladon really be your ancestor?”

“I don’t know,” Brienne said, frowning.  “Some things are true in stories, and other things aren’t.”

“But how do you know which ones?”

Brienne bit her lip.  She didn’t know how to answer that question.  Perhaps there was still an enchanted sword on Tarth.  

“Well...if the sword does exist, it would be in my father’s armory.”

“The Tarth armory!  Oh, I bet there’s all kinds of swords and shields in there from all over the realm.”

“I guess so.  I’ve never seen it.”

“You’ve never seen your own armory?”

“I’m a lady, not a squire!” she said.

But then a thought struck Brienne.  A disobedient thought, perhaps--yet was it not a lady’s duty to impress her betrothed?

“Actually, I know how to get a key,” Brienne said.  

“Really?” Benfred said.  

Her father had a master key, as well as Maester Osmynd and Ser Goodwin--but so did Septa Roelle, and Brienne knew her routines better than she knew anyone else’s.  After riding she always spent an hour or so soaking in the bathhouse.  Brienne could simply take the key from her robes while she was bathing.

“When we get back to Evenfall, meet me in the sparring yard.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

When the horses were stabled and the party dispersed, Brienne changed into brown britches and an old tunic.  She slipped down the stairs past the Great Hall, then ran along the corridor of the keep until she reached Evenfall’s bathhouse.  

Quietly, she tiptoed barefoot down the stairwell.  It was a small room, barely larger than her own bedchamber--but the round stone bath carved into the marble floor occupied half the space.  A torch burned on the wall, yet there was a dark corner where its light did not reach.  Brienne crept to the corner, and waited.  She imagined herself as quiet as the steam rising from the bath, the light and water shadows dancing on the walls. She wasn’t waiting long when soft, delicate footsteps sounded on the stairwell.  She crouched into the corner a bit more, thinking small thoughts.  

A doll-like woman with black hair stepped into the light.  It was Lady Nathaleya.

Brienne wondered what her father’s lady was doing in the bathhouse when she could have her own handmaiden draw a private bath.

But Lady Nathaleya did not remove her clothes to get into the tub.  She stood nervously at the edge, wringing her hands and looking to the stairwell where she’d just come from.

Another set of footsteps sounded--sharper, and more sure.  Brienne saw the long grey robes and square scarf of Septa Roelle.  She smiled at Lady Nathaleya.  Then she drew a small copper key from her robes and presented it to her.

“This opens the chamber on the third floor, in the west tower,” she said.  “His wife’s bedchamber.”

“Isn’t that...disrespectful?” the lady asked.  

“He never goes there anymore.”

“But what if he comes looking for me?”

“Has he come looking for you at all since you arrived, you poor dear?”

“No,” the lady admitted.

“He’ll be occupied with Lord Bryen this evening.  You know Lord Selwyn tires quickly from too much conversation.  Likely he’ll head straight to bed after dinner.”

“Are you certain?”

“I’ll _make_ certain of it.”

Brienne didn’t know what their conversation was about, but she knew it was something she wasn’t supposed to hear.  She breathed deeply to keep her heart from pounding too loudly in her chest, and cupped her hands over her mouth to mute her breath.  

“Have some fun tonight,” Septa Roelle whispered, with a strange smile.

The lady nodded, and quickly disappeared up the stairwell.  The septa moved to the edge of the bath and began to remove her clothing.  First her headscarf--the stiff frame and the wrapping beneath.  A waterfall of soft brown waves tumbled over her shoulders.  She dropped her robes, and sighed low as she eased into the steaming water.  

Brienne was astonished to realize that the Septa was young.  Her body was slender and shapely, her neck long and graceful.  She sank lower in the tub, her hair flowing luxurious all around her in the water.  Her robes were in a pile behind her on the edge of the tub, half hidden in the shadows.  Brienne knew that in those robes was the master key.

Septa Roelle closed her eyes and rested her neck on the edge of the tub.  Brienne couldn’t hear, but she could see her bare shoulders moving more slowly with her breath.  Her lips parted.  She was asleep.

Quiet as a cat, Brienne moved toward the long grey robes on all fours.  She stopped every few feet to listen and make sure the Septa’s breathing hadn’t changed.  Soon, she was within arm’s reach of the robes, and Septa Roelle’s head.  She reached into the deep folds with one hand, her fingers spread.

She felt the key, cold and ridged.  It made a soft clink against its ring as her hand closed around it, and she froze.

Septa Roelle’s head rolled from one side to the other, and her breathing shallowed.  She yawned.  

Brienne held her own breath so long, she felt her face begin to swell.  

The septa's breathing grew long and deep again.

Brienne exhaled.  She stood slowly, the key clutched tightly in her hand, and crept back to the stairwell.  Soft and sure, she tiptoed up the stairs and out the bathhouse.  

She ran down the empty corridor to the sparring yard.  At the corner was the door to the armory, where Benfred stood waiting.

“Where were you all this time?” he asked.

“Getting the key,” Brienne said.  “Move aside.”

“Are you sure this is all right?” he asked as Brienne fitted the key into the lock.  It clicked into place, and she turned it.  “I don’t want to get in trouble.”

“We won’t get in trouble,” she assured him.  

Brienne had a plan to get the key back to Septa Roelle.  She would simply place it on the stairwell without going back into the bathhouse.  The septa would think she had dropped it.

“We only have an hour or so,” she said, pushing the door open.

“Why only an--”

Benfred stopped when he saw the armory.

“Whoa.”

The space was enormous--half the size of the Great Hall, at least.  And it was filled to the ceiling with all types of armor and weaponry, neatly organized by type and size.

They walked in, looking up and around in awe.  It was dark and cool.  They passed bows and arrows, tall shelves of helms, great spears and lances that were nearly twice the height of Brienne’s father, and shields.  Lots and lots of shields, stacked against walls and resting on armor.

Benfred paused to examine each and every one.  “Tarth, Tarth--and more Tarth,” he said, disappointed.  “We have more varied shields in our armory at Nightsong.”

“That’s because Tarth is an island,” Brienne said.  “We don’t get knights from as many different places as Nightsong.”

“And I don’t see any swords that look enchanted.  Just a bunch of ugly, dull ones.”

“Maybe that’s the point,” Brienne said, walking over to a rack of swords.  “The sword we’re looking for might be dull and ugly on the outside to fool people, but on the inside it’s powerful and enchanted.”

“I doubt it,” Benfred said, frowning at her as she eyed the swords.  “And those are just simple sparring swords.”

But Brienne ignored him, and selected a sword from the rack.  Something lighted in her as soon as her hand met its hilt--like the spark of steel on flint.  She smiled and swung it in a small arc.   A wave of confidence coursed through her.   

“We could _pretend_ it’s magic,” she said.  She grabbed another sword, and handed it to Benfred, hilt first.  “Here.  Teach me to fight!”

He took it, but looked at the sword dumbly like it was something foreign.

“Well?” Brienne said, holding hers in a salute.  “Come on, then!”

“I don’t know how to fight,” he said.

“What?”  Brienne said.

“I don’t like fighting,” he said with a shrug.  “I prefer songs.”

He moved to a stash of dusty shields against the back wall, and Brienne followed him.

“You're a boy!” she said.  “You should like fighting!”

He ignored her.

“Here’s a Baratheon one,” Benfred said, pulling out a shield with a stag on it.  Then he frowned.  “Say, what’s your animal?”

“Our animal?”

“Baratheons are stags.  Lannisters are lions.  Starks are wolves.  Carons are nightingales.  What are Tarths?”

“We’re not anything,” Brienne replied.  “Just sunbursts and crescent moons.  My father says we’re governed by the tides from the moon and the winds from the sun.”

“What kind of house doesn’t have an animal?”  

“House Tarth,” she said defiantly.  

Benfred wrinkled his nose at her in disapproval.  Then his face softened as his eyes caught on something behind Brienne.  “What’s that under the sheet?”

Brienne turned around.  The light from the high window streamed on a draped object in the corner, the grey fabric almost blending in with the stone wall.  She walked over to it slowly, and touched the drape.  It crumpled to the floor instantly, exposing the large shield it was hiding.  Brienne tried to lift it from the wall.  It was heavy.  Whatever knight wielded it must have been close to a giant.  

Benfred crouched behind her and blew on the shield.  Ghosts of dust scattered from the image of a large elm tree and a falling star.  

Brienne thought she recognized it, and traced the star’s painted path as if it might help her remember where.  “I don’t know what house this is,” she said.

“I think I do,” Benfred said quietly.  He looked at Brienne in silent wonder, then shook his head.  “No, it can’t be.”

“What is it?” Brienne asked.

He opened his mouth to say something.

“Well, well, what do we have here?” a new voice said, echoing through the room.

Brienne turned on her heels quickly, sword raised.  There, near the entrance to the armory’s open door, stood a tall boy with dark hair, and a slightly shorter boy with curly hair.

Alfyn and Timyn.  The boys who had thrown her dolls up onto the pig shed roof at the feast last year.  She had fallen into the pigpen after retrieving them, and they only laughed and taunted her.  It was the most embarrassing moment of Brienne’s life when she entered the crowded courtyard after that, all her father’s subjects looking at her covered in filth, her dress ruined.      

“What are you doing here?” Brienne demanded.  “How did you get into the castle?”

She regretted not closing the door fully behind her when she and Benfred came into the armory.  They must have been so excited that they forgot.

“What are _we_ doing here?” Alfyn said.  “More like what are _you_ doing here?”

“We’re pages now,” Timyn said.  “Squires in training.  Knights to be.”

“We can spar here anytime we like by Ser Goodwin’s permission.  Never been in the armory though,” Alfyn said, running his hand along the edge of the shelf of helms.

Brienne felt a rush of heat.  “Get out.  It’s my father’s armory, and I say you leave.”

“But how did you get in here anyway?” Timyn asked.  “You must have stolen a key from someone.”

“I did not.”

“I think you did.  Mayhap we should tell Ser Goodwin.”

“I’d like to see you try,” Brienne said, angling her sword toward them.

The boys looked at her a moment, then burst out laughing.

“Really? _You_ want to play at swordfighting?  Shouldn’t you be playing with your dolls instead?”

Brienne had stopped carrying the Warrior and Maiden dolls with her everywhere.  They were too precious to almost lose again.  But she didn’t tell Alfyn and Timyn that.

“Shut up,” she said.

“Ohhhhh,” they said, laughing.  “Really scary.  And who’s this--your lord husband?”

They made kissing noises.  Benfred stood frozen.

“Aren’t you going to do anything?” Brienne whispered to him.

“I told you, I don’t know how to fight!” he said.

“Now is your chance to learn!  Get your sword!” Brienne urged.

But she heard the shuffling of feet as Benfred raced out of the armory.  She was alone.

Brienne turned back to Alfyn and Timyn.  Her hand tightened on the hilt of her sword.

“Looks like your lord husband is scared,” Alfyn said.  “Come on, Timyn, let’s get out of here.  He might be snitching.”

“No!” she cried after them.  She raised her sword as they turned to face her again. “You’re not leaving until you fight me.”  

They burst into laughter again.  

“We’re not so stupid as to fight you,” Alfyn said.  

“You’re a _girl_ ,” Timyn said.  “An innocent maid.  We need to protect the likes of you, not fight you.”

“Especially since you’re probably cursed--just like your father.”

Anger burned in Brienne.  “My father is not cursed!”

“Of course he is.  Everyone knows that.”

“Not least because he has a daughter instead of a son.”

The spark that Brienne felt earlier when she grasped her sword kindled to a roaring fire.  

 _“Tarth!”_ she cried, and lunged for them.

But they were quick, and drew their swords before she could swing hers.  Alfyn cut her down in one strong blow.  

Brienne fell back, sword flying out of her hand.   Her head smacked the hard wood of a bow rack.  For a moment, she was blinded by pain and saw only starbursts and flashing stripes of light.        

She touched her hand to the back of her head.  It was wet and sticky, her fingers tipped in dark blood.  

Alfyn and Timyn came into focus, swords still drawn.  But they were no longer looking at her.  They  were looking back to the entrance of the armory, fear in their eyes.

“What in seven hells is going on in here?” Ser Goodwin growled.  Benfred stood behind him like a child clinging to his mother’s skirts.  

Brienne scrambled to her feet, ignoring the pounding pain in her head.  “It was my fault, Ser Goodwin,” she said.  “I wanted Alfyn and Timyn to show me how to fight.  They were teaching me how to--how to--”

“How to deflect a blow!” Timyn said.

Disbelief flickered in Ser Goodwin’s grey eyes.  

“As if I believe that,” he said. “ How did you get in here?”

Brienne looked at the boys in desperation.  

_Please don’t tell him._

“Brienne stole a key,” Alfyn said immediately.  

She glared at him.   

“Is this true, Brienne?”

It was always serious when he called her by her given name rather than “little star,” his nickname for her.  She couldn’t lie to him when he was this upset.

“Yes,” she said, looking down.  “I took it from Septa Roelle’s robes when she was in the bath.”

“You did _what_?”

“I was going to give it back!”

“You stole from Septa Roelle?”

“Please don’t tell her, please, please don’t!”

“I won’t tell her-- _you_ will. And you will apologize.”

Alfyn and Timyn snickered.

“And you two,” Ser Goodwin said, turning on them.  “You’re not shaping up to be very knightly if you think you can get away with attacking a young maiden _and_ the heir of Tarth.  I should expel you from squire training for that.”

They looked down sheepishly, shuffling their feet.

“Instead, I’ll give you additional duties.  You’ll help with the digging of the new well.”           

They groaned.

Brienne grinned inside.  Well-diggers had the toughest job at Evenfall.  The castle sat atop a very high cliff, and the well had to be redug every few years.  It was a dark, dirty, and thankless job given only to pages who had underperformed in other duties.  

“Let’s hope that sets your thick heads straight,” Ser Goodwin said.  “Now get out.”

Afyn and Timyn ran out of the armory, followed by Benfred.

Ser Goodwin turned back to Brienne, and she tensed in anticipation of another reprimand.  But then his grey eyes widened as they caught and lingered on the large shield behind her.  He walked over to it, slowly, then threw the sheet back over it.  

“Whose shield was that, Ser Goodwin?”  Brienne asked.

“I don’t know,” he said gruffly.  “Come on, let’s go.”

He took her tightly by the hand and marched her out of the armory and sparring yard, straight to the bathhouse.  But Septa Roelle was no longer there.  They tried her bedchamber instead.

Ser Goodwin’s hand gripped Brienne’s more tightly as the Septa cracked open the door.  Through the opening, Brienne could see needles and thread on the sewing table.  But the Septa’s sewing hand was hidden deep in the folds of her robe, clutching something.

“What is it?” she said sharply.

Brienne apologized and returned the key, explaining her misdeed with Ser Goodwin by her side.  Septa Roelle glared at her.

“You may leave us, Ser Goodwin,” she said.  “I’ll take care of this.”

Ser Goodwin nodded, and gave Brienne a tender look.  

 _I’m not always going to be able to save you, little star,_ he seemed to say.

Septa Roelle closed the door and crouched down, her sharp pink nose almost touching Brienne’s.  The clean scent of soap lingered on her skin.

“Did you hear anything?  Any conversation at all?”  

“No, there was no one else but you in the bath,” Brienne lied.  “I came down, and you were sleeping in the tub.  I’m so sorry, I--”

“Nevermind,” the Septa said, turning back to her sewing table.  

“You’re--you’re not upset with me?” Brienne said, confused.

Septa Roelle took an old-looking handkerchief from her robes.  It was delicate and thin, and decorated with purple mountain flowers and green leaves.

“You've already been caught and scolded,” she said distractedly.

Brienne still stood stunned, unsure what to do.  A sharp pungence wafted under her nose.  She sniffed.  On the floor next to the sewing table was a giant cheese wheel with a dark, waxy rind.    

“Why do you have a wheel of cheese in your bedchamber, Septa Roelle?” she asked.  “And why does it smell so awful?”

“I've told you before that you ask too many questions,” she snapped, sliding the cheese under the skirt of the table with the toe of her shoe.  “You are dismissed, Brienne.  Believe it or not, I have things other than you to think about.”  

She started humming a low tune and sat down to mend the hem of the handkerchief.  A strange smile spread over her face.  It was the same strange smile she wore earlier while talking to Lady Nathaleya.

Brienne couldn’t say why, but she felt more afraid of that smile than anything else Septa Roelle could say or do.         

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        -

Selwyn

-

“Here’s to the joining of our two houses,” Bryen said, refilling Selwyn’s wine cup. “Caron and Tarth, pending any unfortunate circumstances.”  He gave Selwyn a knowing glance.

Selwyn blinked, knowing that Bryen referred to the series of tragedies that had recently befallen his own house--the death of his wife, then the deaths of his youngest daughters and only son.   

“I’d like to think our worst days are behind us,” Selwyn said.  “Summer is here, after all.”

“Let’s hope so,” Bryen said.  “Though your tall daughter seems to have a skill for finding trouble.”

Selwyn sighed.  They had both been briefed on the incident in the armory earlier.

“She is my daughter,” he said, suppressing a smile.  

Brienne was exactly like he was when he was as a young boy--obedient and eager to please, but always craving adventure.  He could see it like looking in a mirror.  Yet Selwyn knew he had grown distant from her these past few months and felt guilty for it.  He dreaded the thought of having to explain to her the role she must play in Tarth’s preservation.  How she must be married off as soon as possible, like a horse to be traded.  That was a conversation he left to Septa Roelle to handle.  

Bryen smiled.  “Her septa will make a lady of her yet.  Roelle and I grew up together at Nightsong, I'm sure you know.”  

His eyes were the same shade of bright, yellowish hazel as Roelle’s.  Like the color of the Caron banner, nightingales on a field of yellow.

“Your half-sister, is she not?"

“Unusual circumstances to have a bastard child raised under a lord’s roof, to be certain,” Bryen acknowledged.  “But my father’s mistress died in childbirth.  He felt guilty, and thought the least he could do was raise Roelle as one of his own.”  

“That must not have pleased your mother.”

“Of course not.  She hated her, passionately--made her life miserable however she could.  Poor Roelle.  I always felt so sorry for her.  We were close growing up.”  He smirked.  “Very close.”

Selwyn felt disgust coil deep inside him.  He seemed to recall that Bryen had a bastard of his own.  

_Rolland Storm._

“These things happen when you grow up in the same house, as you well know yourself,” Bryen said, raising his brows at Selwyn as he sipped from his cup.

Selwyn narrowed his eyes.  For such a slight man with only a few strands of brown hair to cover his small head, the Lord of Nightsong had arrogance enough.   

“Helaena and I were not blood-related,” Selwyn said slowly.  “And we were married.”

“Of course,” Bryen replied with a smile.  “But anyway.  It was a short-lived affair.  I took the boy, and Roelle agreed to leave Nightsong.  A base-born, fallen woman doesn’t have many options--so she became a septa.”

Selwyn shifted uncomfortably, swallowing back his distaste and trying to think of an appropriate, lordly reply.

“Well, she harbors no ill will against your house.  She was the one to suggest the Tarth and Caron match herself.”

“A peace offering on her part, indeed,” Bryen said.  “She was never a Lady Caron herself, but now has the opportunity to raise a little girl into a Lady Caron.  Poetic, isn't it?”

Selwyn shrugged.  

“Not all of us become what we once wished for ourselves.  I once wanted to be a knight, not Lord of Tarth.”  

“Perhaps one day we will share a grandson who will release you from your burden,” Bryen said.

“Perhaps,” Selwyn repeated.  He traced the bottom of his cup pensively, and watched Lord Bryen as he finished his dinner.

Not for the first time, Selwyn wondered if he was making the right choice by promising Brienne to the Carons at all.  Yet he was already behind the curve--many marriage alliances had been forged immediately at the end of the war, and now there was not much choice left in suitable lordlings for his daughter.  Once upon a time young Renly Baratheon might have been an option, but now that his older brother Robert was king--it was far more likely he would be engaged to a daughter from a greater, wealthier house.  

Bryen seemed to read his thoughts.  

“All houses harbor some darkness, in one form or another,” the Lord of Nightsong said, picking between his teeth.  “I’ve told you my secrets.  Tell me one of yours.”

Selwyn glanced down at his cup.  “I don’t have any secrets.”    

“No?  My son told me he saw the shield of Ser Duncan the Tall in your armory today.  There’s a very big secret indeed.”

Selwyn’s head jerked up.  He opened his mouth, but was at a loss for words.  He thought he had hidden the shield well enough.  He felt his shoulders tense.

Lord Bryen laughed at his start.  “I did wonder where you got your great height from.  Yet how did that come about?  Ser Duncan was a member of the Kingsguard and sworn to celibacy.”  

Selwyn wanted to lie, but knew that he could not.

“My father was Ser Duncan’s illegitimate son,” he said, lowly.

His words hung in the air, dissolving to heavy silence.

“Come, there must be more to than that.”

Selwyn sighed in impatience.  What the man want to know?

“When my father came to the Sapphire Isle,” he began, “Everyone thought he was a distant Tarth cousin come back to marry my mother and preserve the Tarth name.  In reality, it was a trick conjured by my maternal grandparents.  Our family had waned so much in recent years, there were no more Tarths.  My mother was the sole surviving heir.”  

“Fascinating,” Bryen said, his hazel eyes alight. “Impossible to keep track of all the lines of a family as old as yours, I’m certain.”

Selwyn leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes, weary with remembrance.  “My father only told me when he was on his deathbed, so I would appreciate it if you did not spread this song.”

“Worry not, Lord Selwyn,” Bryen said.  “Nightingales are quite careful with which songs they sing.  Your secrets are mine now, and mine are yours.  In any case--perhaps future Carons will not be so small and mousey.”

He drank from his cup again, and licked the wine from his lips.

“In fact, I’m more curious about this Lady Nathaleya of yours.  You’ve kept her at Evenfall for the better part of a year.  She is your betrothed, is she not?”

“She is.”

“And you plan to marry her at some point--do you not?”

"Is it your business to ask?"

Bryen pushed his plate aside and leaned over the table.  

“An alliance with Tarth is still valuable enough whether my son’s sons are Evenstars are no.  But if we are to share bloodlines and secrets, it is important that I know your priorities so that I can set my own.”

Selwyn sighed and took a long drink from his cup.  He set it down.

“My first priority is to get Brienne off this damned isle.  Better for her that she’s at Nightsong with a new life as soon as possible.  There’s too much sadness here.  Tarth is riddled with curses.”

Bryen laughed--a cold and metallic laugh.

“Your ridiculous people might think you’re cursed, but what’s at the heart of it?  They just want to see you marry again, have children--see that your line is secure.  I know you loved your first wife.  To have true love once is a rare and lucky thing.  But you must be careful, Lord Selwyn.  There is talk about this prolonged betrothal of yours.  It begins to smack of a lord of inaction.”

Selwyn stood from the table.

“If you’ll excuse me,” he said.  “I’m rather tired.”

They adjourned their dinner, made brief arrangements for the next morning.  But as Selwyn made his way to his bedchamber, he turned their previous conversation in his mind, over and over, like a leaf of parchment.  

_A lord of inaction._

Lady Nathaleya had been more than patient, always smiling and willing to submit to whatever was requested of her.  She never pestered him about wedding dates, even if everyone else did.  Brienne had been dutiful in learning the arts of a lady, even if she was a tomboy at heart.  And Ser Goodwin kept Evenfall from splitting at the seams, as always.

 _It’s just me who’s negligent._  

He made up his mind.  He would get it over and done with.  He would marry Lady Nathaleya of House Fell, and forget Helaena.  

_Tomorrow.  I’ll set the date tomorrow._

He was walking up the steps to his bedchamber door, lost in thought, when he stepped on something.  He bent over, and picked up a handkerchief.  

It was Helaena’s handkerchief, embroidered with purple mountain flowers and green leaves.  From her bedchamber.  He sighed, and held it close.  It had long lost the smell of her.  But why was it even there?

_Why Helaena?  Why?_

He folded it gently, and took it back to her bedchamber in the west tower.  It had been so long since he walked this length of the castle.  His feet were heavy, but something moved in his heart--for Helaena’s bedchamber had once been his as well.  But after her tragic death, Selwyn could no longer sleep there and moved the lord’s chambers to the other side of the keep.

He reached the door.  He heard some rhythmic knocking behind it, and held his breath.  Was it her ghost, calling him?  He fumbled for his key, and opened the door.

There, on Helaena’s bed, sat Lady Nathaleya--naked, sheets tangled around her lithe waist.  Her legs straddled a man below her.  The man sat up instantly when he saw the door open, and yelled.  

It was Ser Endrew, sailing master and knight of Selwyn’s guard.  

Lady Nathaleya twisted and opened her delicate mouth in shock.  Their bodies glowed, and their faces flushed then paled to see Lord Selwyn at the door.  She tried to lift the sheets to cover her nakedness, but they were tangled tightly around the blushing lovers.  Ser Endrew rolled to the floor with a thud.

Selwyn dropped the handkerchief to the floor.

 

-

Ser Goodwin

-

“You’ll make a fine knight at Castle Black,” Ser Goodwin said to Ser Endrew.  “You may even be master-at-arms in time.”

It was a humid, foggy day at the private dock of Tarth, where the knight and lady were to depart on separate ships.  

Ser Endrew sulked, his head down.  “A harsh sentence for my crime.”

“Harsh?” Ser Goodwin said.  “ _Harsh?_  You lay with your lord’s betrothed in his dead wife’s bedchamber, and you were stupid enough that he caught you.  If Lord Selwyn had been a Bolton he’d have flayed you.  Had he been a Targaryen he’d have burned you.  Had he been a--”

“He had no _interest_ in her.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Ser Goodwin hissed.  “Castle Black is just the place for you.  Someone who’s taken too much advantage of his lot in life, his pretty looks, and forgotten his place in the world.”

Ser Endrew sighed, watching Nathaleya row out to her Felwood-bound ship.  Her eyes were puffy, her hair slightly less than perfect.  

“I’ll never know a woman again.”

“Sure you will,” Ser Goodwin said.  “There’s always Molestown.  It’s a rare brother that doesn’t frequent the brothel there.”

“Molestown,” Ser Endrew muttered.  “Where the women are all covered in moles, no doubt.”

 _If anything, he’ll get his vanity in check,_ Ser Goodwin thought.

“Why in Lady Helaena’s bedchamber?  Why _there_ of all places?” Ser Goodwin asked.

Ser Endrew’s face darkened.  

“Tell me,” Ser Goodwin said.

“It was only the once,” Ser Endrew said.  “Nathaleya said it was the one place he’d never go.”  

“Well, unlucky for you, last night was the one night he found a stray handkerchief and _did_ go there.”

Of course Lord Selwyn thought the handkerchief was a message from his dead wife.  He was a Tarth after all, superstitious to a fault.  And though he rarely spoke of her, he pined for her deeply.  

But Ser Goodwin still wondered as he watched Ser Endrew row out to his North-bound ship.  Why was the handkerchief outside of Lady Helaena’s room?  

_Someone must have taken it._

“I appreciate the arrangement of separate ships,” a thin voice said behind him.  He turned and saw Lord Bryen Caron, his small son beside him. He carried a wheel of cheese tucked under one arm.  “It’s unpleasant enough to endure the Straits of Tarth, let alone weeping women and sulking knights.”

“I only apologize Lord Selwyn could not be here to see you off, my lord,” Ser Goodwin said.  “He is not feeling well this morning.”

“I shouldn’t think that he is,” Lord Bryen chuckled.  “Anyway, please give him my kind regards for the cheese.”

“Cheese?” Ser Goodwin said, frowning at the wheel under his arm.    

“It was left outside my chamber door this morning.  Very kind of him.”

Ser Goodwin felt a sharp sense of unease as he looked at the cheese.  He had never seen a rind so dark, like the color of congealed blood.  “Are you sure it’s from Lord Selwyn?  I can take it back and quickly bring you a bottle of Dornish red--that’s his usual parting gift.”

“Not to worry, I have the wine as well.  Roelle must have told him of my fondness for a good pungent cheese.  My older son Bryce is allergic and Rolland doesn’t eat at the same table, of course, but the rest of my family will love it.  I dare say it’ll keep us fed for the next two years.”

Ser Goodwin argued no further, but puzzled he as watched the Carons row out to the third ship.  

_A handkerchief dropped outside the lord’s chambers.  A wheel of cheese left outside the guest chamber.  But who left them?  And why?_

He felt gooseprickles on the back of his neck, and turned around.  High up on the cliffs of Evenfall stood a woman in long grey robes and head scarf.  She stood right on the edge, skirts swirling in the wind.  

He thought he could see her yellow eyes, burning bright.

 


	9. The Light of a Shade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne tries to convince Ser Goodwin to teach her to fight; there is a feast to celebrate the new lady come to Tarth, but then something mysterious happens.

-

Brienne

-

Mist billowed and curled from where the rush of waterfall met its pool.  Brienne watched, entranced by shimmering particles that leapt from the silvery skirts of the force.  The specks floated a meandering path through the air, growing ever smaller until they vanished.  The fall reminded her of flowing dresses and dancing lessons, but also something else she couldn’t name--like fleeting dreams that disappeared upon awakening. 

“Come, little star, we’d best ride back to Evenfall before the sun gets low.”

Ser Goodwin’s words broke her trance.  They only stopped at the falls to water the horses, and now he readied them for the return journey.  He brushed their coats free of leaves and small twigs collected from their ride through the woods.  The horses nickered and neighed in contentment. 

“Do we have to go back?” Brienne asked.  It was more a sigh of resignation than a question. Her weekly riding lessons with Ser Goodwin were never long enough.  It was strange how an hour of sewing with Septa Roelle felt like four, and four hours of riding with Ser Goodwin felt like mere minutes.

“Of course we do.”  

Ser Goodwin crouched down by the pool, cupped some water to drink, then splashed the rest on his face.  He scrubbed his fingers through his short, ash-brown hair, then turned to look at Brienne.  Even though his grey eyes flashed like steel, and a thin white scar jagged from temple to jaw, his battle-hardened face was one of comfort to her.   

“You know we have a big feast tonight to welcome the new lady,” he said.  

Brienne scowled, but lifted her legs from the cool water and dried her feet on the mossy bank where she sat.  

“What happened to Lady Nathaleya?  The lady from last year?”

“That...didn’t work out.”

He paused.

“A new singer’s come to court.  A harpist from the east.  She’ll have so many new songs from far-away places--you love new songs.”

“I miss Copper Tongue,” Brienne said.  

A few months before, Septa Roelle had made certain that the eccentric ‘cello player was dismissed from the Evenstar’s service.  “Not essential to a lady’s upbringing,” she had said.  “He encourages too much disobedience in the girl, and his songs are unfit.”

Brienne had loved his songs.  Most of them were silly and joyful, but even the mournful ones were warm and comforting.  He was one of her few friends at Evenfall, and the day she watched him leave with ‘cello on his back, some joy in her heart died away.  

“I know you miss him,” Ser Goodwin said.  “He’s still on Tarth, though.  Hydda’s given him work at her inn.   We’ll pay a visit someday.”

“How about today?”  Brienne asked.

“Not today, we have to make haste.  Besides, I need at least a day’s notice before an encounter with Hydda.”

The large and boisterous woman had a crush on Ser Goodwin that she took no pains to hide.  Though her love for him was unrequited, she was always kind and cheerful, and Brienne liked her.

_ Why is it that all the fun people live far away from the castle?  _  she wondered.

She pulled on her boots and stood, flexing the heel and wriggling her toes.  They had been getting tighter this last month.  She frowned.

“I think I need new boots.”

“You’re getting bigger,” Ser Goodwin laughed.  He helped her onto her horse, Sunburst--a beautiful brown mare with a white star on her forehead.  “You’ll be tall as a tree like your father one day.  Soon enough, you won’t even need my help mounting Sunburst.”

He mounted his own horse, a black stallion called Zephyr, and they started westward, the waterfall whispering ever softer behind them.  The path was wide enough that they rode side by side, nothing but the soft clop of horse hooves on damp forest ground.  It smelled sweet and thick, a musk of foliage and damp bark.  Birds trilled and warbled, weaving fluttering melodies from tree to tree.  Sun shone through the leaves in glimmering blades of light. 

“I wish we could ride more than just once a week,” Brienne said.

“It would be nice,” Ser Goodwin agreed.  “You’re very good company, little star.  But I’m so busy, what with my other master-at-arms duties.  Lots of young squires to train.”

“Can’t I be one of your squires?”  Brienne asked.   

He sighed.

“We’ve had this conversation before--”

“--you once promised me a sword.”

“That was before Septa Roelle came,” he said.  “Before your betrothal to Benfred Caron.  Things are different now.  Your father wants you to be a lady.”

“But they aren’t different!”   Brienne said.  “I’ve done everything that’s asked of me.  Learned all my lessons.  Any sparring sword from the armory would do--just teach me to fight.”

He sighed again and looked to the path ahead.

“Please?”

“Why do you want to learn to fight, Brienne?”

She didn’t know how to put the desire into words.  On the rare occasion when she did hold a sword, a fire lighted in her heart.  Like magic, the world would focus--colors brightened and sounds sharpened.  She felt stronger and more sure of herself.  With a sword in hand, Brienne even imagined she was a knight from one of the songs, going on some great adventure to serve a noble lord and save the world from evil.  

But how could she tell Ser Goodwin all of that, in a way that didn’t sound utterly ridiculous?

“I think swordfighting could be quite useful for a lady--it might help with dancing,” she said.

Ser Goodwin burst out laughing at this.  Brienne felt a flush of heat rise up her neck.  She was being sincere and trying her best, but he thought it was a joke.

“I’m sorry, little star--but it’s not up to me.  If your lord father saw me training you as a squire, allowing boys to knock you into the dust and give you broken bones--why, he’d likely put me on the first northbound ship and tell me to go take the Black.”

Brienne knew her father wouldn’t do that.  Ser Goodwin was as much a part of Evenfall Hall as the marble of the castle walls.  

“Can’t you just ask him?”

“Why don’t you ask him yourself?” 

Brienne sighed, and shifted uneasily in her saddle. 

She loved and admired her father greatly, but talking to him proved more and more difficult.  He was a towering statue with a long, stern face and far-away gaze, ever looking out to sea or somewhere on the horizon.  “I’m busy,” he would tell her whenever she tried to talk to him at length.  

Yet even at eight years old, Brienne had figured it out.  She knew that he would marry a new lady and have a son by her.  That child would be his new heir, and would learn to fight like a warrior and ride horses like the wind.  Brienne didn’t begrudge her father that at all, even if it made her feel a little sad--he deserved a son who could inherit Tarth and carry on their name.  She didn’t even mind the idea of marrying Benfred Caron and moving to Nightsong, either; she wanted to fulfill her duties as best she knew how.  But then what would be her place in her father’s life, once she was married and no longer living on Tarth?  What was her place in his life even now?

All she knew was that she had once promised him she would be a lady.  To ask him now if she could fight in the sparring yard like a boy was unthinkable.  

“Nevermind,” she muttered.  “I know it’s a bad idea.”

Ser Goodwin grunted in solemn agreement.  

They rode the rest of the way mostly in silence.  The forest opened wide into a grassy vale, mostly sunbathed but creased with shadows from the enclosing hills.  A family of deer watched them from a trickling brook, their long ears twitching.  Brienne smiled at them, and wondered what it was like to spend whole days prancing through meadows and splashing through streams. 

Ser Goodwin broke the quiet to talk of which dishes he hoped the kitchen would prepare that night--he liked roasted duck with snap peppers.  Brienne loved sweets, and was especially fond of honeyed apple pies.  

“I lost my sweet tooth a long time ago in the wars,” Ser Goodwin said.  “Never found it again.  Guess I’m too salty.”

Brienne managed a smile.  She knew he was trying to lighten her mood.

“So you agree do you?  You think I’m salty?”  He looked at her in mock contempt.

“You’re not salty, you’re nice.”

He shrugged. 

“One can be salty and nice.  Just as one can be sweet and...not nice.”

“Like Septa Roelle,” Brienne said.

She was simpering and saccharine to everyone, especially Brienne’s father.  But that was a mask she lifted when alone with Brienne. 

“I have my eye on her, you know,” Ser Goodwin said.  “I see right through that nasty sweetness of hers.”  

Brienne said nothing.  The last thing she wanted was for Ser Goodwin to see her as weak, unable to withstand a strict Septa and the rigors of lady arts--paltry in comparison to the demands of squire training, no doubt.

And straight ahead in the distance was Evenfall Hall, purple and looming atop its high cliff.  Septa Roelle would be waiting to dress her for the feast, with her fierce yellow eyes and hands that pecked like chicken beaks.  Brienne felt a cold stone form in her belly at the dread of it all.  She wanted to run.

Perhaps she could run.  She leaned forward in her saddle and tightened her grip.

_ “Hyah!” _ she shouted, kicking Sunburst forward and cracking the reins.  The horse whinnied in surprise, but broke into a gallop at the command.  Brienne swung away from their course toward Evenfall, and she heard Ser Goodwin shout as he started after her.  

_ “Hyah!  Hyah!” _

She cracked the reins again, leaning more forward and driving the horse westward towards the coast.  Once there, she could rig a boat and sail far, far away.  Perhaps even all the way to Storm’s End.  __

But the mare came to a sudden stop--skidding and kicking up dust.  She reared up so high, Brienne almost fell out of her saddle.

“What’s the matter, girl?” Brienne asked her once she had settled.  Sunburst was still breathing hard and snorting.  Her eyes were wide, the whites exposed.

_ She’s spooked by something,  _ Brienne thought.  

A warm breeze from the west whispered around her.  It was like a gentle and calming embrace, but strong enough that she leaned into it a bit and closed her eyes.  It encircled her once more, then passed.  She turned to glimpse what sent the wind--but only gazed upon a grassy hill with a lone tree at the top.  

Ser Goodwin skidded to a halt close beside her, and snatched the reins from her hands.  

“Seven hells, Brienne!” he scolded.  “That’s it, you’ve lost your riding privileges for the rest of the day.  Onto my horse, come on.  You’ll ride in front of me like you’re five years old again.”

But Brienne was still looking at the hill.  

“There’s something up there that startled Sunburst,” she said.  “And I felt a strange breeze.”

Ser Goodwin followed her gaze.  Brienne was sure she saw his face blanche.

But he looked back at her with knit brows and steely eyes.

“A strange breeze?” he said.  “Gods, you’re becoming more like a Tarth every day.  Stubborn and easily spooked.  Not to mention, too strong and quick ahorse for your own good.  Now come on.”

He slapped the front of his saddle, and she obediently crawled over her horse and onto Zephyr.

She took one last look behind her as they rode back toward Evenfall.  The sun was dipping low behind the hill, gilding the grass and streaking the violet sky with long fingers of rose.  

Somehow, the warm and gentle breeze had reminded Brienne of a mother’s embrace.

But how could that be, when she didn’t even remember her own mother at all?

 

-

Selwyn

-

A hundred chairs pushed out from their long oak tables, a grunting chorus of wood on stone.  Selwyn entered with the official party behind him--Ser Goodwin and the guardsmen, Maester Osmynd, Brienne, Septa Roelle, and Lady Joy Peasebury of Poddingfield.  The shuffle of their boots and dresses resounded crisply throughout the Great Hall.  He took his seat at the head table, and gave a clap for all to be seated.  Wood groaned on stone again.  Conversation began to bubble, and silver clinked.  He sighed.

Tonight’s welcome feast was nothing so fancy like the open feast two years ago when all of Tarth came to Evenfall, but a special occasion nonetheless.  The Great Hall boasted a crowd of nearly a hundred guests, mostly prominent merchants, sailors, and townspeople of the social elite.  The long oak tables were lined with silver settings, and servants bustled between them balancing domed platters.  

A rug woven with Tarth’s colors adorned a space on the floor cleared for the night’s entertainment, and some chamber players were already tuning up their instruments.  After the music was finished, all eyes would turn to the head table, and Selwyn would announce his betrothal.

A servant set a dish of halved fresh figs before him.  

_ Summer’s fruit.   I’ll talk of summer. _

He rehearsed his betrothal speech in his head.  It would be short and simple, mostly formalities.  Lean enough on prelude.  He could summon his lording speech for such occasions with minimal effort; it was a reflex.  But he still dreaded it and wanted it over and done with as soon as possible.

“My lord?”

Selwyn looked to the Lady Joy, sitting to his right.  She was plump and blonde, high of forehead and short of chin.  Not young, but still young enough to bear children.  Her large bosoms strained over the bodice of her white dress embroidered with green peas--the sigil of her house--and she flaunted a grin so wide and gummy, it was almost gory.  

“I was only asking from whence you imported such glorious figs, my lord?  They taste of honeyed sweet morning dew, and--and--something so lovely, they’re altogether unearthly!”

Selwyn had no idea what honeyed sweet morning dew tasted like, or if it was at all possible for a fig to be unearthly.  But Lady Joy had a penchant for flowery language, even if it didn’t always make sense.   He stole a sideways glance to Maester Osmynd and Ser Goodwin, seated to his left.

_ Is this really the best we could find? _  he asked them silently with his eyes.  

They shrugged.  Lord Selwyn had taken little part in securing the match himself, but consented that there must be a new Lady Tarth.  He must father new heirs.  His family before him had taken desperate measures to protect the Tarth name--he couldn’t turn his back on this duty simply because he could not love another woman as he had loved Helaena.  Besides, the people of Tarth were watching him closely.  Another failed betrothal might inspire more whispers about the Evenstar’s Curse.  

He turned back to Lady Joy.

“I assure you, my lady, they’re earthly,” he said, forcing a smile.  “We grow them on Tarth when summer’s at its height, as it is now.  The only import tonight is you.”  

She flashed him her gummy smile.  Some fig seeds were stuck between her two front teeth.  

_ At least I’m less likely to catch her between sheets with one of my own knights,  _ he thought.

“But I have heard tell that there will be a singer tonight, from across the Narrow Sea?” she said.

“Yes, of course,” Selwyn said.  “My daughter has longed for one since the leaving of our last.”

He glanced down the length of the table.  Brienne sat there next to Septa Roelle, straight as an arrow.  She looked ladylike enough in her dress of silver with gold sunbursts and blue embroidery, her flaxen hair curled and twisted into a few braids atop her head.  She even wore a slight smile while she ate, as all ladies were taught to do--but for a moment he saw the corner of her lip twitch.  Her mother Helaena had that same twitch when she was uncomfortable.  Selwyn knew she’d rather be in a tunic and riding britches, outdoors and free.   _ A lot like I was at her age, _ he thought.  She saw him looking at her.  Her eyes widened and fluttered back down to her plate, her freckles darkening against the flush of her cheeks.

For all the love Selwyn had for his daughter, he had no idea how to talk to her.  Lording speech was easy, but words from the heart were something else entirely. 

_ How is it that you are so eloquent in public but so bloody hopeless in private?   _ Helaena used to chide him whenever he grew too reticent.  It was her cue to him to soften, to let her in and cull troubles from his heart.  She was good at that.  It had been a type of magic to Selwyn. 

_ If only you were here, Helaena, for so many reasons, _ he thought. 

But Helaena would never be at Evenfall Hall again.  Her resting place was on the western slopes.  And Brienne would not be at Evenfall much longer, either.  In a few short years she would be at Nightsong, married to Benfred Caron.  

Perhaps all was as it should be.

Selwyn turned his eyes to the crowd.  Everyone had been served.  The featured singer of the night took her place on the floor, and a few supple harp notes filled the hall.  It was a familiar tune, but Selwyn couldn’t place it yet.  

“I simply adored songs when I was a little girl,” Lady Joy gushed.  “And I still do--the Sapphire Isle’s are so rich in wondrous myth and melodious poetry--such a magical place!”

Selwyn hummed in agreement.  It was the best he could do while he rehearsed the speech he was to give in a few minutes’ time, dread still rising in him.  He picked at the figs on his plate.  There were still thick stems attached to the fruit, and a bit of dirt as well.  He would have to ask Maester Osmynd if they were so low-staffed in the kitchen that they couldn’t be bothered to wash and prepare food properly.  

But then he heard the singer’s voice, and froze.

_ High in the halls of the kings who are gone, Jenny would dance with her ghosts ... _

Only one voice was could be so gentle.  To hear it now felt like a heavy rain after a long drought.

His fingers loosened their grip, and he heard the distant clatter of his fork on the floor.  Lady Joy babbled something incoherent.  

“My lord?” Ser Goodwin said next to him.  “My lord, is everything all right?”

Selwyn did not answer.  He was afraid, but raised his head to look at the singer.  

When he saw her, his heart stopped.

Her hair was nut-brown, and her eyes were the color of violet mountain flowers.  Freckles graced her milky skin, all up her neck and across her cheeks.  She wore the same silk rose dress he last saw her in, and she looked at him with a soft smile he knew too well.  Warmth flooded his chest.  

“Helaena,” he whispered, and rose slowly from his chair.

“My lord!”  Ser Goodwin put a hand on Selwyn’s elbow, but he shook it away.  

“What’s happening?” Lady Joy asked.

All of it was distant noise.  Their voices diminished, and light focused on her tall and slender form.  Helaena looked right at him.   Her slim fingers plucked the harp a few more chords, and then slowly she set the instrument aside.  She rose from her chair, but the sweet and haunting melody continued.

Selwyn walked down the steps, away from the head table, across the floor.  He stopped a hand’s width from her.   _ Yes. _  It was her, all her--the way she tilted her head, how her hair fell  around her face in wisps.  Not a freckle out of place.  Shaking, he reached out to touch her.  

Her hand met his, and their fingers clasped.  Her skin was warm.

“It’s you,” he breathed.

She smiled. 

“Hello, Selwyn.”

It was all he could do to keep from crumbling apart at the sound of her gentle speaking voice, his name on her lips.  

“Will you dance with me?” she said, eyes shining.  

With the little command he had left over his body, he placed his other hand on her waist and brought her near.  He held her tenderly, afraid he might break her.  But she was firm and warm--more so than she ever was in his dreams these past six years.  Her arms encircled his neck, and she gazed up at him.  

“Is this real?” he asked.

“As real as the sun and the moon, the wind and the sea,” she whispered.  

They danced in a flood of soft light.  All others faded into darkness--still silhouettes on the periphery of the hall while the Evenstar and his wife swayed in a balmy glow that was all their own.  

He lifted a hand to caress her cheek.  She closed her eyes and leaned into his touch.  

“Please stay,” he said. 

She opened her eyes.  Sadness flickered there, and she shook her head.

“This world is not mine.”

“Then let me come to yours--wherever it is.”

“No, Selwyn.  You need to be a father to our daughter.”  

“I’m trying.  I’m not very good at it.”

“You’re bloody awful at it,” she said with sternness, but a smile tugged at her lips.  

She leaned into him and he embraced her fully, and tilted his head down until his mouth touched the top of her head.  

“Tell me what I should do,” he said.  Soft strands of her hair parted against his lips as he spoke.  

Helaena stopped moving her feet, and pulled away to look up at him.  Her eyes were pleading.

“She’s meant for so much more.  You know it.  And she needs more love from you.”

The music began to fade.   

“Don’t go,” he begged.  “Please stay.  Haunt me.”

“I am always here,” she said, resting her hands on his chest.  “In your heart.”  

He held her closer, and bent his head to hers.  He kissed her.  Her lips were soft and her breath was warm, and he felt so light he thought he might fall.  Or float away.  But then he felt her tense and strain.  It stirred him from his reverie, and he pulled away from her.  

The woman was not Helaena anymore.  Her hair had darkened to black, and her eyes dulled to the color of plums.  She was shorter, smaller.  

Selwyn slid a quick step back.

The singer looked embarrassed and confused.  She smoothed her purple dress.

There was a chorus of murmurs all around him.  He turned, spinning about in a circle--looking for her.  He saw Brienne.  Septa Roelle.  Maester Osmynd, the knights of his guard.  The townspeople, merchants, sailors--all were staring at him, wide-eyed and mouths agape.

“My lord?  My lord?”  

Ser Goodwin spoke to him.  His face was a blur, but his eyes were sharp with concern.  Maester Osmynd stood next to him with a face of matching concern.

“What happened to her?”  Selwyn asked.  “You saw her, didn’t you?”

“Who?”

“Helaena, of course!”

Maester Osmynd and Ser Goodwin looked at each other.

“That...woman was not Helaena, my lord.”

His mind raced.  He began to feel hot, and nauseous.

“But she was!  Or Helaena was her, for five minutes at least!  You must have heard the music.  You saw how the light changed, how we danced--”

“Lights?  Dancing?  My lord, all we saw was you getting up from the table, walking down the steps to the harpist.  It was only a fragment of second that you--that you embraced her, kissed her--and then pulled away.”

Selwyn felt overcome by dizziness.  He stumbled back a bit but Ser Goodwin caught him, and helped him to lean against the corner of a long oak table.

“Excuse his lordship, he is not well,” Ser Goodwin announced to the hall.  “Dinner is adjourned.”

_ “But we haven’t even had dinner yet.”   _

_ “Or the announcement!” _

“I have the announcement!” a shrill voice said, close behind. 

Before Selwyn could look up, a hand slapped his cheek.  It was a weak and grazing strike and didn’t hurt in the slightest, but it shocked him all the same.  

Lady Joy stood there, tears brimming in her pea green eyes. 

The guards withdrew their swords, and Ser Goodwin lifted a hand to put them at ease.  

“I am sorry, my lady, I--” 

He heard a snort, and a web of spit flew into his face.  

The crowd of guests erupted into gasps of shock.  He lifted a hand to wipe the spittle from his face, and through his fingers saw Lady Joy storming out of the hall, weeping. 

The hall’s murmurs escalated into a frenzied buzz, like insects in the thick of a forest on a humid day.

“Does no one believe me?”  Selwyn bellowed.  “Did no one else see her?”

“I believe you, my lord!”

All heads turned to the voice from the head table, where Septa Roelle stood. 

_ “What?”  _ Ser Goodwin rasped.  “Sit down, you stupid woman!”

“You saw her?” Selwyn asked.

“I didn’t see  _ her _ ,” Roelle said, walking down the steps toward him. Her voice was softer than he’d heard it before, her eyes dimmer.  She stopped a few feet from where he leaned against the table.  “But I saw that you saw her.  And I believe you.  I’ve seen ghosts myself.”

_ “Witch!” _  Ser Goodwin shouted.  He cut in front of Selwyn and grabbed Septa Roelle by her collar, shaking her.  “What are you doing to him with your  _ witchcraft _ !”

Septa Roelle struggled against him.  

“You idiot, get off me!” she cried.  “This was no doing of mine!”

“Oh really?” he growled.  “The handkerchief.  Lady Nathaleya last year.  That was your doing.”

“So what if it was?  I work by wit and not by witchcraft.  He never would have been happy with her.”

“You think he’ll be happy with you?  You can’t have him!”

“No woman in this world can have him.  So stop parading all of the Stormland’s tarts through this bloody hall, it’s disgusting!”

Too much noise.  All their voices were noise to Selwyn’s ears, when all he wanted was to hear one voice again.  

_ “You need to be a father to our daughter,” _ she had said.

He looked for Brienne, but her chair was empty; she must have slipped away in all the noise and confusion.  Selwyn wanted to do the same.  He rose from the table. 

“My lord?  Where are you going?”

Selwyn was already at the doors of the Great Hall.  He pushed them wide open, and left the Stone Keep.  Ser Goodwin ran and shouted after him for a time, but stopped once Selwyn reached the outer walls.

He quickened his pace, stumbling in the darkness toward the hill with the lone tree at the top.  The moon was full, so large it looked unreal, and bathed the grass silver.  The night breeze blew strong but gentle, and waves crashed steadily against the cliffs.  

_ As real as the sun and the moon, the wind and the sea. _

He fell to his knees when he reached the tree, and lay his body over the mound, fingers twining in the grass that grew there.  The earth felt as warm as her lips had felt on his.

“You must come back, Helaena,” he whispered, weeping into the ground.  “Please, please come back.”

  
  
  
  
  
  



	10. Shade's Eve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tarth celebrates the coming of Shade's Eve. Lord Selwyn receives grave news from Nightsong. Ser Goodwin and Septa Roelle have a testy encounter. Brienne goes on an adventure.

 

- 

Ser Goodwin 

- 

A dense fog had settled over the Sapphire Isle. It descended over the trees like a thick blanket, closed around the ports in a white siege. _Summer gloom,_ the people of Tarth called it--it came to visit every summer season. The mornings were wet and cold, releasing to a smothering mugginess in the afternoons.

The mist was not yet so thick today, and small lights gleamed in the distance. People carried torches, forming a glowing trail that was miles long, winding through the meadow all the way into the forest and the Sept. Ser Goodwin and Maester Osmynd were both ahorse, watching the procession from a high hill barely half a mile from Evenfall.

“Shades’ Eve is a Tarth tradition on the full moon of summer gloom,” the maester said. “The people believe that the thick mists denote the spirits of ghosts come home to the Sapphire Isle. Candles are lighted and gifts are laid along the path to the Sept to encourage the shades. If the sun shines on the morn and the skies are clear, it denotes a bountiful harvest.” 

Ser Goodwin knew all of that. He’d heard the lecture a thousand times in the past few weeks. Maester Osmynd was a walking book of Tarth lore and customs.

“It’s all nonsense, if you ask me.”

The maester looked at him sharply.

“Nonsense? You’re too quick to find fault in Tarth traditions, Ser Goodwin. It’s all light-hearted, and good fun for the children. It only comes once a summer season, so they’re lucky to see it at all.”

Ser Goodwin softened at that. _I know one child in particular who should like to see the festivities,_ he thought. 

If he could manage to pull Brienne away from Septa Roelle’s iron grip, he would take her riding to the Sept that evening. Even though he rolled his eyes at Tarth superstitions, he knew that Brienne would love the festivities. Perhaps they would even stop at Hydda’s for refreshments. As much as Ser Goodwin hated to admit it, he missed the lusty hag. The atmosphere of Evenfall was frigid as of late, and it must have worn him down so much that he was desperate for some light company.

“Well. I suppose our little event at Evenfall last year has built great anticipation for the season.”

It was hard to forget last year’s feast, when Lord Selwyn saw his wife’s image in a singer’s form. No one else saw her, but all were spooked out of their skins.

“It was only a vision born of grief,” Maester Osmynd said. “I know that as well as you.”

Ser Goodwin looked at him in surprise.

“I thought you were superstitious enough to believe it yourself. What do the people think?”

The maester raised an eyebrow at him.

“What do you think that they think?”

Ser Goodwin thought a moment, and sighed.

Lord Selwyn had invited two ladies to Evenfall in the past two years, and married neither of them. Both were dismissed due to different circumstances--but the people didn’t know that. All they saw was how the Evenstar had approached a dark-haired, plum-eyed foreign beauty from the east and kissed full on the lips in the Great Hall.

“They must think the Evenstar is quite the rake for ladies, I suppose.”

The maester sniffed in agreement, and shrugged.

“Not an entirely damaging reputation. Everyone likes a bit of gossip, a bit of drama.”

“It's true,” Ser Goodwin said. “Aside from all that, Lord Selwyn is a good ruler and no ill has befallen the isle lately. We can thank our lucky stars for that.”

The master’s eyes turned to the sky. 

“Oh my.” 

Ser Goodwin followed his gaze. A raven beat its wings in a straight line toward Evenfall. He could just make out the small roll of parchment attached to its foot.

“Dark wings, dark words,” the maester said lowly. “We’d better start back.”

 

***

 

They found Lord Selwyn in the council chamber, deep in discussion with his new sailing master, Ser Hugh--a small man with a thick, broom-like mustache. The war table was littered with ships all around the relief carving of Westeros, and banners representing armies positioned along coasts.

“Even if the fog weren’t so thick, my lord, it’s a question of finding willing sailors.”

 “I have sailed in fog and storm and ice—weather is no excuse,” Lord Selwyn replied. He towered over Ser Hugh like a full-grown oak over a sapling. “And I understand the importance of the season, but this is a rebellion against the crown. Tarth ships _will_ come to King Robert’s aid against Balon Greyjoy.”

Ser Hugh’s lip twitched, and so did his mustache.

“Try telling that to the sailors, my lord. They will not one of them take on the work, not when Shade’s Eve is upon Tarth. Not until the sun shines bright and clear again.” 

“They will if I command them to.”

Ser Hugh looked at him for a long time.   “I will try again, my lord,” he said, then exited the chamber.

Lord Selwyn looked to Ser Goodwin and Maester Osmynd. “What now?”

“We’ve had a raven from Nightsong, my lord.”

He snatched the rolled message from Maester Osmynd’s hand, and broke the wax.

“A wonder the bloody raven even found his way here.” 

“Tarth ravens are trained to see beyond what they can see,” Maester Osmynd said, ever proud of his rookery. “There are even blind ravens that can find their way in a storm.”

“Gods,” Lord Selwyn whispered, reading the message.

“What is it, my lord?”

He looked up at Ser Goodwin and Maester Osmynd, shock in his eyes.

“The Carons are dead. Lord Caron, Lady Caron, their daughters--and Benfred.”

 Ser Goodwin felt his stomach drop. 

“This is the last thing I need,” Lord Selwyn said with a heavy sigh, slumping back into his chair. “Between this and Greyjoy’s Rebellion.”

“But how did they die?” Maester Osmynd said.

“A chill.” 

“What, even in summer?” Ser Goodwin blurted. “Who catches deadly chills in this season?”

“Chills come and go in all seasons, Ser Goodwin,” an icy voice said.  Septa Roelle appeared behind him, carrying a few thick books.

“Here are the books you requested, my lord.” 

She gently laid them beside Lord Selwyn, then stared at Ser Goodwin coldly. 

“What are you doing here?” the knight demanded. “Where’s Brienne?”

“Lady Brienne is feeling ill, and retired to bed early tonight. Lord Selwyn needed some help with his research whilst the both of you were out gallivanting.”

“We were not _gallivanting_ ,” he said through gritted teeth.

He glanced at the spines of the books before Lord Selwyn covered them. One read _A History of Ghosts in Westeros._ Another was _Magic and Shades._ So Roelle was indulging him in this respect. Was that how she had gained his trust?

Roelle leaned over Lord Selwyn--almost seductively, even in grey robes that covered her from neck to toe.  She frowned at the parchment. “But it says Bryce Caron is still alive?”

“I suppose you didn’t know about Bryce’s cheese allergy,” Ser Goodwin said.

“I don’t know at all what you mean.”

“I’m sure you don’t.”

Lord Selwyn looked between them both.

“What’s this about cheese?”

“I don’t know, my lord,” Septa Roelle said. “Ser Goodwin doesn’t look very well himself, perhaps the chill is catching.”

Lord Selwyn gave them a weary look, then threw the parchment aside.  He rubbed his brows with his large hands.  

“In any case, I need to find a new match for Brienne. Maester Osmynd, bring me a stack of parchment. And a lot of ink.”

The maester nodded, and left. Ser Goodwin stayed behind.

“Yes, Ser Goodwin?” Lord Selwyn said. Roelle was still behind him.

“I would like to speak to you, my lord,” he said. “Alone.”

Lord Selwyn nodded to Roelle. She lingered a moment to narrow her eyes at Ser Goodwin. Her pink nostrils flared ever so slightly before she broke the stare and left the room, dull grey skirts swirling. 

The Evenstar looked at his master-at-arms expectantly.

“Well?”

“Do you not think it’s strange, my lord, that the Carons died from a chill? Even in summer?” 

Lord Selwyn frowned.

“What are you suggesting, Ser Goodwin?”

“I think there was some foul play at hand, my lord. In fact—I know there was. A large cheese wheel was given to the Carons just before they left Evenfall. I saw it. And now--”

Lord Selwyn held up his hand to silence the knight. “I’ve heard enough.”

“I believe it was Roelle who gave it to him.”

“I’m sure she didn’t.”

“She did it out of vengeance!”

“I refuse to entertain the idea.” 

“My lord—“

“I said _enough,_ Ser Goodwin!” he shouted.

Ser Goodwin looked down at his boots, drawing a breath to collect his frustration.

“You and Septa Roelle both play an important role in bringing up Brienne as a lady. I need you to be at peace with each other, not at war.”

“This is exactly what I’m trying to say, my lord--I have serious, serious doubts regarding Roelle’s suitability to raise Brienne.”

“Would you like to take over such duties?” Lord Selwyn said. “Give her sewing and singing lessons?”

“We need to find her a new Septa. I don’t trust Roelle.”

“Well, I do,” Lord Selwyn said. “After all, she’s the only one who trusted me last year when—“

He didn’t finish his sentence, but looked out the window. Even in the thickening mist, the hill with the lone tree at the top was in view. It was Lady Helaena’s resting place.

“She hasn’t come back,” Lord Selwyn said quietly. “But this is Shade’s Eve. If it happened at all last year, she will appear to me tonight.”

“And if she doesn’t, my lord?”

“Then perhaps I truly am going mad.  Perhaps it all was just a dream.”

Lord Selwyn paused, seeming to accept the idea for a moment. Then he shook his head in defiance.

“But it wasn’t a dream. She said something that has haunted me ever since. She told me to watch Brienne--that she is meant for more. But what?”

“I don’t know, my lord,” Ser Goodwin said. 

“The only thing I can think of that she wants for is a mother. And that’s one thing I cannot give her.”

Ser Goodwin knew this. After the scene of last year’s feast—Lord Selwyn had said there would be no more ladies invited to Evenfall.  He would never again entertain the idea of a wife.  

The door swung open. Maester Osmynd had returned, but without the parchment and ink. 

“There are visitors come to the castle doors, my lord. Some townsfolk and—and a young woman.”

“A young woman?” Lord Selwyn said, looking to Ser Goodwin. 

"I have no idea, my lord."

They arrived at the ramparts to see three townsfolk looking up at them from the portcullis--the young woman, flanked by what appeared to be her parents. Though they were but beetles from this height, but Ser Goodwin could see that the young woman was very pretty, with long red hair.

“Good morrow, my lord,” the man shouted. “This is our eldest daughter, Flora.” 

Lord Selwyn nodded slowly.

“What business are you calling for, Flora?”

The girl was shy, and only looked down at her slippered feet. Her mother spoke for her instead.

“Flora has been selected by the township as this year’s Lady Tarth!” she said proudly. 

Lord Selwyn looked at Ser Goodwin and Maester Osmynd for help, a stunned expression on his face.

"Is this some new plot of yours?  Some joke?” 

“No, my lord!” they both said at the same time, equally confused.

“I am not looking for a new wife,” Lord Selwyn shouted back down to the townsfolk.

“But you must have a new lady,” the mother said. “To keep away the curses.”

“Help me, Maester Osmynd,” Lord Selwyn said. “What is this about?”

“I don’t know, my lord,” the maester said, flushed. It was rare indeed when he didn’t have insight into commonfolk mind of Tarth.

“My lord,” the man shouted from below. “Every time there’s a lady sitting at Evenfall, there is no war, there is no famine, there is no storm—but now that Greyjoy’s Rebellion has begun in the middle of summer gloom...” 

His voice trailed off. He looked to his wife for help.

“Our Flora is well-groomed and well-read, and ready to serve you m’lord.”

She curtsied deeply, and the husband bowed. Flora still looked scared, but followed suit and rendered an even deeper curtsy.

Lord Selwyn stared down at them for a long time. His eyes flashed to Ser Goodwin, then the maester, then back to the townsfolk.

“There will never be another Lady Tarth,” he said, his voice flat and wooden. Then he turned and left.

“My lord!” Maester Osmynd said, and rushed after him, chains clinking.  Ser Goodwin was left with the eyes of the townsfolk and the guards upon him.

“Well, let them in,” he sighed. “They’ve come all this way from the town, the least we can do is let them in for refreshments.”

The guards nodded and cranked the winch, rolling up the portcullis. 

But before he turned away from the ramparts, he saw a squire in full armor ride out the gate.  Ser Goodwin didn't recognize the squire from this height, but he knew the horse with the shiny brown coat and a white star upon her head. 

“You there, boy!” he shouted. The squire turned.

“Where are you headed with Sunburst? You know that’s the Evenstar’s daughter’s favorite horse.”

“I’m just going to the procession, Ser,” the squire said. “I’ll be back before first light.”

His voice sounded young for his size.

“I was left behind to clean up the armory while the others rode off,” he explained. “By the time I got to the stables, all the other mares were taken or lame.”

Indeed, Ser Goodwin had given leave for all the squires to ride off to Tarth’s Sept at the center of the isle and enjoy Shade’s Eve. He couldn’t begrudge a boy who had stayed behind to clean up after his mates. 

“Lucky for you, Lady Brienne is ill and won’t be needing Sunburst this evening,” Ser Goodwin said. “But stick to the paths and don’t go crawling around caves looking for witches and ghosts. On misty nights like these, it’s easy to get lost in the dark of the forest and starve. Remind the others of that.”

The squire nodded, and rode off with great speed.

Whoever the boy was, he was a confident rider. Sunburst was an unruly mare that only submitted to Brienne. But this squire handled her well enough. 

Ser Goodwin left the ramparts and made his way back to the Stone Keep, intending to join Flora and her parents in the Great Hall. He supposed it was his chance to do Maester Osmynd’s work and try to gain some insight into the simple minds of Tarth’s people and their superstitions. _Hopefully my own intelligence won’t sink by talking to them,_ he thought.  

He turned down a corridor, so lost in thought he bumped into someone.

“Oh!” Septa Roelle said in surprise, and a bit of disgust. She tried to push past him, but he cornered her in the crook of the corridor.

“Oh, indeed,” he said.

She tried to escape him, but he blocked her path with his arm on the wall. 

“What are you doing slithering about? Off to poison someone again?”

“Let me pass.” 

“Not until you tell me why."

“Why what?”

“You know what. The Carons.  You poisoned them with that gift cheese of yours.”

“No one can poison what's already poisoned,” she hissed.

"Don't speak to me in riddles, woman.  I want to hear you admit what you did."

"You don’t know anything about my life at all, Ser Goodwin, do you?” she said, barely above a whisper. 

"Educate me."

"No one knows the miserable existence of a bastard girl in a noble house. I was hated and abhorred my entire upbringing. Bryen was my only comfort. The only one I wanted, who wanted me. He was my future. He promised me he would wed me after the birth of our son, but even he spurned me in the end.”

Ser Goodwin waited for more.  She said nothing.

"That's it?" he said, and almost laughed.  "Your vengeance boils down to being spurned in love by your half-brother?  I would have thought such a hard and vile creature would be made of tougher mettle than that."

Her yellow eyes bored into him with such fierce hatred, Ser Goodwin nearly recoiled.

"How easy it is for you to say such things, Ser Goodwin," she said.  

"Easy?  I was of low birth myself," he said  "I clawed my way out of Flea Bottom--"

"Because you were born a man, and I was not.  Men can always learn to wield swords, no matter their birth.  Men can become knights, all armored and shining and full of honor.  They can hack down their enemies and boast of it as right and good, and call it  _justice_.  As long as it is the will of whatever lord they serve, it is justice."

"But you are a member of the faith.  You serve the gods."

"And I carry out their will," she said, her voice sickly sweet.

"You're not a pious woman at all."

"Brienne is luckier for the Carons' fate.  Trust me, Ser Goodwin."

“I'll never trust you," he growled.  "Do you hold some sick grudge against Tarth as well? Are you trying to extinguish Lord Selwyn’s line? Not only did you kill Brienne’s betrothed--an _innocent_ boy--you helped turn him against taking a new wife. He might have been married to Lady Nathaleya had you not orchestrated that affair with Ser Endrew.”

She laughed, cold and metallic.

“Has it ever occurred to you, Ser Goodwin, that you’re not the only one with Lord Selwyn’s best interests at heart?  You think you’re so shrewd but you’re not. He had no interest in Lady Nathaleya. She was bound to stray even without my help.”

Ser Goodwin swallowed, and thought back to Lady Nathaleya. Her dark curls that she always twirled with her elegant fingers, her wandering eyes. Her coquettish smile. She was vain, a perfect match for the likes of Ser Endrew. It probably did take little effort on Roelle’s part to orchestrate the affair. And yet the thought was unsettling and put a stone in his belly. For all her wickedness, perhaps Septa Roelle had an even better ability to read others than Ser Goodwin did.

“You are a witch.” It was all he could think to say.

“Everything is as it should be Ser Goodwin,” she said. “I’ll be here for a long, long while. Especially now that Brienne is in need a new match. That ugly girl needs as much help as she can get if she wants to be a lady.”

The stone in his stomach burned hot. Quick as lightning, he gripped her shoulders and pushed her hard against the wall. A small yelp escaped her lips before he clapped his hand over her mouth.

“Now you listen good and well. I don’t care about your little vengeance plots. I don’t even really care that you’re obviously in love with Lord Selwyn. He’ll never love you back, and that will take care of itself. However. You will not mistreat Brienne. That little girl is innocent, and I love her like she’s my own. If you hurt her, if you are ever cruel to her--I swear to you, I will kill you with my own two hands.”

Fear flickered across her face. He let her go, and stared her down. She smoothed her robes and shot him an icy yellow glare before turning crisply and pacing back down the corridor.

A chill ran through his body to watch her disappear into the dark. He felt deep pity for Brienne, and wondered if it was true that she was feeling ill. If he were Brienne, he would fake sick as often as he could just for time away from such an insipid woman.

He should go to her bedchamber and let her know that he would take her the procession at Shade’s Eve later on.

Ser Goodwin climbed the spiral steps of the Stone Keep’s East Tower and knocked on the heavy oaken door.

“Brienne?”

No answer.  He tried again.  Perhaps she was sleeping too soundly to hear him. He was about to leave and try later, but then a vision came to mind; the armored squire riding away so sure and speedily on Brienne’s horse.

_Oh no._

He quickly found his master key and unlocked the door.

There was just enough twilight left for him to see the mound snuggled in bed, covers pulled over the head.

“Brienne!”

The mound did not stir. He went to the bed and pulled down the covers.   But there lay only bunched, empty dresses, and a small pumpkin on the pillow. 

“For fuck’s sake,” he muttered.

  

-

Brienne

-

 

The castle was long out of sight by now. Brienne galloped over fields frosted with mist, lights burning in the distance. It was the first time she had ever been riding by herself, and she never felt so free. She loved the staggered thumping of Sunburst’s hooves on the ground, and the rush of wind whistling through the armor. She had stolen it from the sparring yard, sword and all--the suit was a bit big for her, but would have to do. 

The air was warm, and the moon so round and large it looked as if it might burst and spew forth a thousand dragons, like in the stories. It lighted the mist silver as Brienne headed inland toward the forest, imagining she was riding on a great adventure. On nights such as these, anything seemed possible.

Before long, the rolling hills and vast fields thickened with tall soldier pines. A soft glow bloomed from the forest’s edge, and she saw the path lined with gleaming lights, winding toward the Sept.

Song and laughter warmed the night. People were lighting more tapers, sticking them in the ground whilst singing songs and passing treats to children. Brienne smiled.   The happy faces of parents and children, and friends and lovers glowed with the light of the little fires in the darkness, and it warmed her heart. It looked magical, like an illustration from one of her books. She saw a father riding ahorse with his small daughter in front of him.   The little girl laughed as the father fed her sweets.  Brienne swallowed the tightness in her throat.  She couldn’t remember the last tender moment she’d had with her own father.  A hollowness filled her chest, and she veered away from the path.

She hadn't gone far when she heard a soft clopping behind her, uneven with Sunburst’s hooves. She turned.

A dark, cloaked figure on a dark horse had veered from the path as well, headed in Brienne’s direction. The lights from the path shone on the rider’s form. Tall and slender, but a woman’s shape nonetheless.  

A chill ran down Brienne’s spine.

There were many tales of witches on Shade’s Eve, come out of the forest to collect naughty children and boil them in a pot. Ser Goodwin always told her not to believe such nonsense, but Brienne was alone with her wrongs tonight. She was nothing if not naughty, having stolen armor and snuck out without permission.   

She snapped her head forward and leaned into Sunburst.

 _“Hyah!”_ she whispered, and snapped the reins. Sunburst broke into a gallop. She heard the thundering hooves of the horse behind her, too, and her heart raced. She didn’t stray far from the path, but headed deeper into the forest, until thick-trunked trees and mist enveloped her. She slowed Sunburst to a trot, and looked behind her shoulder. No one was following her any longer. She breathed a sigh of relief, and a heavy smell of roasted figs and apples wafted in through her nose.

“Hydda’s Inn!  Sunburst, we’re close to Hydda’s!”

The sweet scent of cider grew stronger, and Brienne soon found the low-roofed tavern with glowing windows. She tied up Sunburst outside the stables and walked in through the door. It was hot and stuffy, but full of laughter and cheer. The room was so crowded, there was barely room to move, let alone a table to spare. Yet there was music, and the floorboards shook with dancing.

_For when the moon is ripe, the summer warm and thick_

_‘Tis then the shades of Tarth will dance a jig_

She smiled as she pushed her way through the crowd.   There was Copper Tongue, plaited hair mussed as ever, wearing mismatched shoes and a bright red vest. He sawed away at his ‘cello with his bow and sang in a voice that had nearly gone hoarse. The crowd clapped and sang along, and Brienne joined.

_In the wood they dance and sing_

_All night long, they dance and sing_

The song ended with roaring laughter.

“I’ve got four ales here for a Jack, where’s he gone?” Hydda shouted. The large, meaty woman pushed her way through the crowd, balancing a tray full of drinks with one hand. She nearly tripped over Brienne, and some of the drink splashed into the grate of her helm, stinging her in the eyes. 

“Well hello, little knight!” Hydda said. “Aren’t you a far way from the sparring yard. I ought to tie you up and hold you ransom to entice your master-at-arms!”

“But this is no knightlet, Hydda,” Copper Tongue said, taking one of the unclaimed ales from her tray. “Why, this is a _ladylet_!”

He lifted the visor of Brienne’s helm. Hydda’s jaw dropped.

“Gods be good, little one!” She looked around, bewildered. “Are you all alone here?”

Brienne nodded, smiling.

“I told Septa Roelle I wasn’t feeling well, and went to bed early. I stuffed my bed so no one will know!”

“My sneaky ladylet!” Copper Tongue said, and gave her a great bear hug. “It’s so good to see you!”

“I’ve missed you so much!” Brienne said, hugging him tight. “Will you walk the lighted path with me?”

“I’m afraid not, ladylet--this is the Inn’s biggest night of the year. I need to stay here and play dances. Life isn’t as easy as it was when I was at Evenfall and in your father’s service.”

He kissed her cheek and climbed back up a table with ‘cello in hand to play another dance, a tin cup clipped to his belt. A few coppers dropped into it and he bowed in thanks.

“You’d best get back to your castle, little one,” Hydda said, balancing a new tray of drinks and squeezing around Brienne. “Here’s no place for young girls. The drink is flowing, and people get awfully rowdy.” 

She patted Brienne’s helmeted head with her free hand. Brienne felt disappointed, but knew Hydda was right; the crowd grew larger and louder by the second.  It was hot, and smelled more of ale and sweat than roasted figs and apples.

Yet a cold prickle on Brienne’s neck made her turn her head. She saw the cloaked woman from the path, sitting in a booth at the back of the inn. Her pale hands were white as snow, and cupped a horn of ale.  Even though her hood was drawn, obscuring her face, Brienne knew--the woman watched her. 

The prickles on her neck turned colder still, and her heart beat wildly in her chest. Brienne pushed through the crowd toward the door. She opened it and slammed it shut, gasping in fresh air.

She heard the inn door creak open and creak close, and glanced over her shoulder. The cloaked woman followed.

_The witch._

Brienne had no time to go to the stables and untie Sunburst. Ahead of her was the forest. She ran for the darkest thick of it, stumbling through brush and tearing through trees.

She found a blackberry bush, full of thorns and tangled vines. She ran behind it and peered through the leaves, slowing her breath. The cloaked witch was nowhere to be seen. 

A twig snapped behind her.

Brienne jumped to her feet--but not fast enough. An arm wrapped around her chest and pulled her backward. She yelped, but a hand clapped over her mouth.

“That’s _my_ sword and armor!”

Another pair of hands reached to pull off her helm.

She squinted up at two squires. One was short with curly brown hair and green eyes, the other taller with a dark cap of hair and black eyes. He was not much older than Brienne, and had some fuzz starting on his chin.

Alfyn and Timyn. Of course.

Alfyn’s black eyes widened at the sight of her, then narrowed.

“Why did you take them?”

 “I’m sorry,” Brienne stammered. “I only wanted to come to the festival, and it was the only way I could escape the castle unseen. You left your things unattended after sparring yesterday--”

“You stole from me!” he spat.

“Wait ‘til we tell Ser Goodwin,” Timyn said, a smile creeping over his face. “He’ll be furious with you.”

“Please don’t.”

“Why shouldn’t we?  It was you that got us well-digging duty for over a year.”

Brienne remembered. Two years before, Ser Goodwin had caught her and the boys fighting in the armory. Even though Brienne had started the fight, he disciplined Alfyn and Timyn all the same.

“You’re nothing but cursed, just like your father.”

Brienne felt her insides grow hot.

“My father is not cursed,” she said.

“Of course he is,” Alfyn said. “And he’s a lecher to boot. Look, I’ll let you keep the armor til morning if you want. But give the sword back now.”

Brienne’s hand gripped the hilt.

“No,” she said lowly.

“What?”

“I said no.”

“It’s his sword, you have to give it back!” Timyn said.

“It’s a sword from my father’s armory. And I’ll only give it back if you take back what you said about my him being cursed, and--and--a lecher.”

Brienne didn’t even know what a lecher was, but she knew it wasn’t favorable.

“I won’t take it back,” Alfyn said. “It’s true.”

“It is not!”

“Give the sword back, or Timyn will beat you for it.”

Timyn stepped forward. His eyes were cold and mean.

“You can’t beat me!” Brienne said. “You don’t even have your sword on you!”

“Trained squires have better odds than an armed girl. Even if you are tall and ugly.”

Brienne flinched.

_Ugly?_

She knew she was tall, but it was the first time anyone had called her ugly.  Was it true?  Visiting lords had always told her how pretty she was.  Ladies were supposed to be pretty.

Timyn took advantage of her confusion, and hurled himself toward her. He tightened his fingers around hers on her hilt. Brienne squirmed, using her elbows to shove him off. He pried the sword from her hands. In anger, Brienne bit him on the forearm. She tasted blood, and he howled in pain.

“Bloody useless,” Alfyn shouted at Timyn. He came at Brienne throwing a punch, but Brienne ducked out from under him. He fell into the empty air.   

“Don’t call _me_ useless!” Timyn said. “Hey--come back here, you ugly, cursed girl!”

Brienne ran away from them, stumbling into the forest. It grew so deep and misty, that she couldn't see the trees around her. The wood was old, thick and tangled, and there were stories of people venturing in and never finding their way out. But she had to keep running--she no longer had a sword.

The mist enveloped her more fully than before, and Brienne could barely see her feet as she ran. Her ankle snagged on a broad root, and she fell face-forward. The world went black for a painful moment, and she heard a sickening crack as her nose hit a large stone.

She sat up, stars in her vision. Warm liquid was pouring out her nose. Blood.

Though her sight was blurry, she saw Alfyn and Timyn running for her. She tried to stand, but fell again. Laughter rang through the wood.

“We’re not done with you yet, ugly girl!” They were coming closer. Close enough to strike her.

But then a tall, dark figure stepped between her and the boys.

“Leave her be! She’s mine!”

The cloaked woman. _The witch._

Alfyn and Timyn went pale--whiter than the mist threading through the trees.

“Who--who are you?” Alfyn stammered.

“I’ll be hungry enough to boil you into a soup if you don’t leave this instant,” the witch said lowly.

“Oh gods,” Timyn squeaked. Brienne saw the crotch of his britches darken. Urine trickled out one pantleg.

“Follow the glow stones back to the path. I’ve laid them out for you.”

They stood paralyzed a second longer. The witch lunged toward them and they fled, stumbling up the steep slope. She waited until the sound of crackling twigs and rustling leaves diminished, then turned to Brienne. She knelt and reached her long arms out for her.

 _She’s going to kill me._ _And eat me._

Brienne shut her eyes and cowered against the tree whose roots she stumbled over.

The witch’s hands touched her shoulders, gentle and soft.

“I’m not going to hurt you, sweet girl.”

Brienne glanced up. The witch removed her hood. Brienne was shocked to see that she was young. She wore a warm smile and had thick brown hair, gathered in a loose braid. Her skin was smooth without a single wart. Her eyes were a warm shade of violet, and she had lots and lots of freckles--even more than Brienne had.

The woman drew a tin from her cloak and opened it. It smelled of tree sap and herbs.  

“This will hurt before it feels better. It’s the best I can do for you until Maester Osmynd patches you up.”

“How do you know Maester Osmynd?” Brienne asked.

“Shh, don’t say anything. Stay very still.”

She cradled Brienne’s head in her arms, and applied the salve to the bridge of Brienne’s nose.

Brienne winced at the sting, squeezing her eyes shut. But it warmed and numbed the pain some. She opened her eyes again. There was something familiar about this woman’s face, her touch--even her voice sounded like a sweet song from long ago.

“You’re not a witch at all--are you?” 

The woman smiled.

“No, sweet girl. I’m not a witch.”

“But you were following me the whole night. At the path. The inn. Who are you?”

“Someone who cares about you very much.  Someone who wants you safe.”

As she leaned in to apply more of the ointment, Brienne noticed how pale the woman was, despite her freckles. So pale, she glowed like moonlight.

“You’re a ghost. A shade.”

She nodded, so slight it was almost imperceptible.

“Then it’s true. Shade’s Eve. It’s all real?”

The woman closed the tin, and lifted a hand to stroke aside a few strands of bloody hair.

“As real as the sun and the moon, the wind and the sea.”

Brienne closed her eyes. Her nose was tender still, but the woman’s touch was so warm and welcome.  Like a mother's touch.

“You should come to Evenfall," she said with a yawn. "My father would like you--even if you are a ghost.”

Brienne wasn’t sure why she said that. But she knew it to be true.

“I’m afraid I can’t. It wouldn’t be good for you, or your father. But I’ll be watching you, Brienne. Sleep now.”

Brienne wrapped her arms around the woman. Her nose and whole face still throbbed a little, but she buried it in the folds of the dark cloak.  

“Please don’t leave,” Brienne wept.

The woman kissed her head.

“I am always in your heart,” she whispered. “You’re so brave. Keep fighting, Brienne.”

Sleep overcame her then, deep and black as the forest.

 

***

 

When she surfaced, the sun was trying to pierce through her eyelids. Her face throbbed with pain. Something wet and snorting nudged her head.

“Sunburst,” Brienne groaned, and cracked her eyes open. The world was blurry at first, and painfully bright. Her arms were wrapped around the trunk of a tree. She pulled them away, and rubbed her eyes. She sat at the top of a hill, Evenfall Hall in the distance.

“Brienne!”

The man's voice called from afar, and she felt the ground thundering with the galloping of hooves. She kept her head down as Ser Goodwin rode up beside her and slid off his horse.

“Gods Brienne, what are you doing here of all places, I’ve been looking for you all night long--”

He saw her face.

“Seven hells. Let’s get you to the infirmary.”

 

***

 

The infirmary had a sharp, clean smell of gauze and disinfectant. Lord Selwyn stood by as Maester Osmynd patched her up and dressed her wound. Brienne sat on a cot, looking out the window. She could see the hill with the tree at the top, where she woke.

“That’s the best I can do for a broken nose, my lord. It will have to heal on its own.”

“Thank you, Maester Osmynd. You may leave us.”

She heard the door close. The sterile room went quiet. Her father’s silence was worse than the pain in her face. She opened her mouth to apologize.

“It’s my fault.”

Brienne looked up, surprised. He had spoken the very words she was going to use.

“What?”

“It’s my fault you sneaked away last night. Of course you wanted to see the festival. What child wouldn’t. I should have taken you. Instead, I was here waiting for ghosts that don’t even exist.”

“Ghosts?”

“It’s my fault for being an absent father. For not spending more time with you. I’m sorry for that. I promise I’ll do better. I’ll try, if you let me.”

Brienne’s eyes fluttered down in embarrassment.  She studied her boots, caked with dried mud. She wasn’t used to receiving apologies, and didn’t know what to say.

“But what I don’t understand, Brienne, is why you insist on fighting.”

She lifted her head sharply, and felt the rush of blood. The pain in her nose.

“I was defending you.”

He looked at her curiously.

“Alfyn and Timyn said you were cursed.”

He sighed, and rolled his eyes.

“Those two. It’s kind of you to defend my honor Brienne, but you’re a girl. You can’t expect to win a fight with Ser Goodwin’s squires.”

“But I want to fight!”

“You can’t fight.”

Tears pricked her eyes. She blinked them away.

“The woman who saved me said I should keep on fighting.”

“What woman?”

“Well, she was actually a ghost.”

He furrowed his brow and turned away from her.

“Now you’re making me angry, Brienne,” he said, pacing to the window. “Ghosts aren’t real.”

“They are real!” Brienne sobbed. “As real as the sun and the moon, the wind and the sea!”

Lord Selwyn turned sharply and looked at her. He was either going to slap her, or rush to embrace her. She didn’t know which, and felt afraid.

“What did you just say?”

“As real as the sun and the moon, the wind and the sea.”

There was something in her father’s piercing blue eyes that resembled fear, but more desperate than that.

“What did this woman--this ghost look like?”

“She was tall for a woman. She had brown hair--and she had freckles like me. But her eyes were violet.”

Her father swayed, and for a moment Brienne thought he would fall over. His hand caught the edge of the table, and he steadied himself.

“She told me I was brave,” she said, still fighting back tears. “That I should keep fighting.”

She brought her hand to her bandaged nose, a painful reminder. It itched from the dried blood, and she wiped it with the back of her hand.   She winced in pain.

“But obviously I shouldn’t.”

Lord Selwyn didn’t speak for a long time. Brienne looked down. Then, she felt his large hand close around her wrist.

“Come on, then,” he said.

“Where are we going?” Brienne asked, stumbling to keep up with his long strides.

He didn’t answer.

She followed him down the corridor, past the sparring yard. There were some older squires sparring with the knights. Normally Brienne would be waking up to the sounds of their swords clanging. Now they lowered their swords, unsure what to do when they saw the Evenstar pass with his bloody-nosed daughter in tow. Brienne flushed to feel them watching her, and turned her bandaged face from them.

Lord Selwyn stopped at the door to the armory. He unlocked the door, hinges groaning as he swung it open. The familiar smell of dust and steel wafted through the entryway.

She wandered a few steps in, watching him cautiously. He was at the rack of sparring swords, lifting them and studying their length. He selected two, then turned to offer her the shorter one, hilt first. Brienne stared at the round pommel, inches from her face. She swallowed hard and looked up at him, unsure what to do.

“Take it,” he said.

“Why?” she said. It was the only word she could manage.

He sighed.

“Do you want to learn to fight or don’t you?”

“You’re going to teach me to—really?” Brienne said. “But I thought you didn’t want me to fight!”

“If you’re going to do it, you might as well do it right.”

She tentatively reached for the sword, but he withdrew it before she could touch it.

“More confidence than that,” he said, and held it out to her once more. “Try again.”

She bit her lip in defiance. She reached for it again, fingers closing around the hilt and taking it from his grip in one sharp movement.

He smiled.

“Better. Now follow me.”

They walked out of the armory and into the sparring yard, where squires were still practicing. They all stopped to stare.

“My lord?” Ser Goodwin said. He looked at them both curiously. “What are you doing, my lord?”

“What does it look like, Ser Goodwin?” Lord Selwyn said. “I’m teaching my daughter how to fight.”

The knights and squires all looked on as their towering lord and his young daughter parried back and forth. He would knock her sword from her hand, and Brienne would run to retrieve it.

“Keep a firm grip!” he yelled after her.

The knights shouted suggestions on form, and Brienne repositioned each time, heeding their words. She began to feel an aching in her forearms and her shoulders. But it was a good ache. She didn’t want the lesson to end. Her father smiled down at her. There was pride in his eyes.

Before they could begin another round, Maester Osmynd rushed into the yard, waving a rolled parchment.

“Good news!” he announced. “The rebellion has officially ended--the Greyjoys have surrendered to the Iron Throne."

Lord Selwyn took the roll to read the message.  He nodded.

“And Lord Balon has given his son Theon to the Starks as hostage.  Thank the gods,” he said.

“Thanks to our Flora!” a woman’s voice shrilled. They all turned to see the townsfolk visitors from the previous day.

“Seven hells,” Lord Selwyn murmured.

The woman held onto the shoulders of her daughter with the long, wavy red hair. The girl looked shy and unsure, stealing fearful glances at Lord Selwyn. In fact, the entire yard was looking to Lord Selwyn.

“How are they still here?” he asked Ser Goodwin.

“We gave them room and board, just for the night, my lord,” Ser Goodwin said. “But they’ll be on their way now I’m sure.”

“The rebellion is ended and the sun shines brightly,” the woman said.  Her eyes were bright and lit with excitement, almost feverish.  “It’s all in the presence of a lady, my lord. I told you so.”

Lord Selwyn looked at them a long time. The wind ruffled his long blue robes. He shrugged. “Find young Flora a room, Maester Osmynd,” he sighed. “See that she’s well-looked after.”

“Are you certain, my lord?” Maester Osmynd said.

He shrugged. “A new lady every year. The people want what the people want.”

He turned back to Brienne. She raised her sword hopefully, but he smiled and removed his leather gloves. “You’ve all but worn me out, Brienne,” he said. “And I’m already in desperate need of sleep.”

He turned to his master-at-arms.

“Train her as you would one of the boys, Ser Goodwin. I need to ensure she can defend herself so she doesn’t get another broken nose, otherwise I’ll never make a new match for her.”

“Yes, my lord.”

He knelt down so that his eyes were level with Brienne’s.

“Just because I’m allowing you this doesn’t mean you will stop being a lady.”

“Of course not!” Brienne said, trembling a bit with excitement. “I’ll be the best lady there ever was!”

“That means no more sneaking off.”

“No more sneaking off,” she repeated. “I swear it.”

He lifted a hand to her bandaged face. “You make me so very proud, Brienne.”

He kissed her cheek. Brienne’s heart soared as she watched him leave for the Stone Keep. Her nose and entire face hurt to smile, but she just couldn’t help it. She felt happier than she had ever been.

“Well done, little star,” Ser Goodwin said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “I hope you’re ready. Your training starts now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is now on hiatus. A girl goes to music school and has many cello scales to practice. I'll return to it at some point, but this seemed like a good, lighthearted stopping point halfway through the tale. 
> 
> In the meantime if you have any questions about the story, please ask! Thank you for your readership and comments, as always :-)


	11. The Song of Morne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roelle POV, Selwyn POV, Brienne POV.
> 
> Septa Roelle gives Brienne a music lesson; Selwyn hosts an old friend at Evenfall; Ser Goodwin takes Brienne and the rest of Evenfall's fourth-year squires on their rite of passage trip to Morne.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is long enough to be three chapters, not one...but I'm still doing the "chapter for each year" thing. So savor this ridiculously long chapter, and Merry Christmas/happy holidays! :-)

-

Roelle

-

Golden beams sloped through the window.  Roelle sat in their path, basking in the warmth.  This was the gentle crook of afternoon and evening--her favorite time of day, when the sun shone fully in her bedchamber and bathed the dull grey stones a glorious amber.  Even shadows seemed warmer.  She always found light so intriguing, how its slant shifted mood and altered perception.   _Like music._

The girl stood before her, tall but slumped, her hands folded on her skirt while she sang a soft melody-- _The Song of Morne._   A Tarth traditional about legendary knights and valor.  Her voice possessed a uniquely sweet and yearning sound--the vibrato was still too warbling, but it would come with age and time.

The last verse finished.  Roelle struck a note on her wood harp.  She smiled.  The girl had stayed well in tune.

“Very good, Brienne.  You have a wonderfully true voice.”

Brienne flushed at the compliment.

“Say thank you when someone gives you praise.”

“Thank you, Septa Roelle,” Brienne replied softly, turning her gaze to the floor.

Roelle sighed.

_What kind of woman will this tall and awkward girl become?_

At the very least, her mother had given her a decent voice; hopefully she had something of a bosom to give her as well, but Roelle doubted it.  She’d asked after Lady Tarth’s appearance before.  The servants who had been at Evenfall since the dark days said the woman was straight and slender, with lovely eyes and a gentle heart.

Lovely eyes and a gentle heart always meant a woman was plain.

Yet Brienne was more than plain, in the direction in of homeliness.  No trick of the light could help that.  The girl was only ten, but Roelle could see it already.  She was freckled as a peasant, and her straw-colored hair had no wave in it at all.  Even in a dress she looked boyish.  Of course, some girls had a sort of ugly-prettiness at this age before they grew into their features and blossomed as full-flowered beauties.  But Brienne was not one of those.  Her broken, gnarled nose ensured it.  And she grew taller everyday--freakish tall for her age.

Sewing lessons were painfully long, dancing lessons longer.  Singing lessons were the only time Roelle ever felt a real connection with the Evenstar’s daughter; they both shared a deep love of song.

Roelle thumbed through her poetry book.  “Let’s sing another one, shall we--how about ‘Fair Maids of Summer?’  You like that one.”

But Brienne’s gaze had drifted to the window.  The clanging of swords sounded from outside.

Roelle bit her lips together.  She considered a moment.

“Do you know, Brienne--there are some songs more powerful than any sword?”

That earned the girl’s interest.

“Really?”

“Really.  At Nightsong, there was once a book of magical melodies.  Ancient Songs of Influence.  Very old songs from Valyria.  Songs for love, songs for power, songs for glory.  Songs to win all that a heart desires.  But only one with a golden voice could sing them.  A voice that only comes along every thousand years.”

Brienne’s blue eyes sparkled, veiled in childlike innocence and pure wonder.

“What ever happened to the book? Is it still at Nightsong?”

Roelle scoffed.

“Silly girl, there is no such book.  It’s just a story I made up to catch your waning attention.  Anyhow, you’ll never see Nightsong.  You know your betrothed died of a chill last year along with the rest of his family.  Now.  Let’s pick up where we left off with embroidery yesterday.  We need to make you into a lady if your father is ever to make you a new match.”

But the girl’s gaze had drifted to the window again.

“Brienne!”

She turned back to Roelle.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just that Ser Goodwin and the squires are all packing to leave for Morne.  I should be helping.”

Roelle sighed.

“If you practiced sewing even half as much as you swung that silly sword, you would have more dresses that fit you.”

Even today the girl wore a dress that threatened to expose her ankles.  Roelle had only made it last year.

“I can’t keep sewing all your dresses.”

“I know.”

“Your father wants you to be a lady.”

“I know.”

“The art of being a lady is--”

“Just as disciplined as the art of the sword.  I know.”

Roelle sighed again, and glanced out the window.  She looked back at Brienne, and gave her a gracious smile.

“We’ll end our lesson early today, just this once.”

The girl’s face lit with gratitude.

“Thank you so much, Septa Roelle!” she said, kneeling to gather her sewing things and songbooks.  She rushed for the door.

“Brienne,” Roelle called after her.

The girl looked back, holding the door half-open.

“Let the boys win, Brienne.  This is their time.  They’ll make your life harder for you if you don’t.”

Her chin tensed a bit.  She left the room.

Roelle picked up her own embroidery--a project for a new dress with rich colors and a fitted bodice.  She would never wear it as a septa, but sewing was a meditation that cleared her mind.

She heard more voices through the window.

“You’re late, Brienne.”

“I’m sorry, Ser Goodwin--I was in a lesson!”

“We’ve already packed and done your work for you.”

“I’ll carry twice my load to make up for it.”

A lower, handsomer voice sounded.

“I hope you all enjoy yourselves at Morne.”

Roelle felt a warmth stir deep inside her, and rushed to the window.

The Evenstar stood in front of Brienne and the boys, all the young squires watching him intently.

In his youth, he must have been the very picture of a chivalrous knight--taller than tall, broad-chested and handsome with long golden hair.  Yet Roelle preferred this older, more lordly shade of his younger self.   _Was there ever a man who looked more noble?_  Time and grief had worn him thin, yet he was still unbowed with broad shoulders, his features bold and sharp.  His hair had turned mostly ash with just a few flecks of gold, like his beard.  His eyebrows were the same color, the eyes beneath a sapphire blue.

And in those eyes there was a sadness--a sadness Roelle loved most of all.  She wanted to swim in that sadness.

“Are you coming with us, my lord?” one of the boys said.

“No, not this year.  I have business that keeps me here at Evenfall.”

Brienne ran to him, and he bent to kiss her cheek.  The boys snickered.  Even from the window, Roelle could see the blush creep up Brienne’s neck.  The girl turned quickly from her father’s embrace to mount her horse and join the pack of squires.

A young woman appeared at the entrance to the keep.  She had long red hair and large, round eyes.

“My lord. Supper is ready, the tables are set in the Great Hall.  Will you join us?”

“Of course, my dear,” Selwyn replied.

He put his hand on his mistress’s back and they retreated back into the keep.  Hot jealousy burned inside Roelle, but she knew it was the most he ever touched the girl; the handmaidens reported that he never visited her bedchamber, nor invited her to his.  The arrangement was for keeping up appearances alone--the overly superstitious people of Tarth thought that without a lady at the Evenstar’s side, curses would befall the island.

“Everyone better have what they need--we leave now!” Ser Goodwin said, trotting to the front of the pack on his black mare.

His silver armor glimmered bright, and the battle scar that jagged across his face had a formidable sheen.  But Roelle squinted, and saw him better--his armor was steel, not silver, and dull as his dark grey hair.  The scar made him look old, tired.

“You’re not nearly as smart as you seem, Ser Goodwin,” she murmured.

Even though he couldn’t possibly hear her, he glanced up and saw her.  He held her stare.  She lifted her chin in defiance and waited for him to blink. He did, and turned back to his pack of squires.  He cracked his reins and uttered a command, and they all rode clanging out the castle gates.

It grew dark.

She put her embroidery aside, and rose from her vanity.  She moved along the wall, holding a candle to the stones where light from the hearth did not reach.  One stone was rougher than the others.  She slipped her finger into a chink in its corner, and moved the stone.  A heavy, leather-bound book lay inside.  She took it out gently, and ran her finger over the gold-plated lettering in Old Valyrian.

_Ancient Songs of Influence._

Killing the Carons had been easier than attaining the book after their death; yet it would have been entirely impossible to get the book at all had they lived.  She was sorry for the children, she truly was.  But this was hers.

She closed her eyes and remembered a time from long ago.  She was a young maid of sixteen, spending most her time in Nightsong’s library; she found comfort and solace in books.  One book was special.  Time stopped the first time she sang a line from its pages, and everyone turned to stare and praise the golden-eyed girl with the voice of gold, base-born though she was.  She never believed that spells existed until then--yet her half-brother Bryen fell in love with her, and promised to make her Roelle Caron, Lady of Nightsong.

But somehow, the spell was broken.  The book was slammed shut and hidden well, and Roelle was sent far, far away.

“I should have been more careful,” Roelle whispered to herself, tracing the gilded spine. “More patient.”

But she knew patience now.  It was her greatest talent, aside from singing.  She carefully replaced the book, pushed the stone back.  She might wait months, she might wait years--but she would wait until she was certain.

 

-

Selwyn

-

 

He rose early the next morning.  It was dark when he started from Evenfall, dawn by the time he reached the harbor.  Gull cries and shipyard work filled the air, and the dusty blue mouth of water opened to the pinkening sky.  A crowd of fishwives gathered on the edge of the market square, watching him.  He nodded to them.  They averted their eyes and whispered.

_“You can see it in his face, he’s still cursed.”_

_“Perhaps Evenfall needs a new lady.”_

Selwyn pretended not to hear them.  Fishwives would certainly be the undoing of Tarth.

He made his way to the pier, squinting at the boat rowing ashore.  It docked.  A dark, husky silhouette ambled unsteadily over the gangway.  The black, scaly armor suited him well.  His dark auburn beard was grisled, and deep lines carved his face.  He had aged.  But so had Selwyn.

The burly knight strode ashore, coughing into his elbow.

“Gods, that smell!” he said, waving his hand in front of his face.  “What kind of lord allows his harbor to reek of a privy topped with fish guts?”

“I don’t know,” Selwyn replied. “But for a knight who calls himself the Blackfish, you look rather green.”

The knight frowned up at him.  He sniffed and squared his shoulders.

Selwyn raised his eyebrows, but felt a smile tug at his lips.

They both laughed, and embraced fiercely as brothers.

“I might have some skill with a sword and bow,” Brynden Tully said. “But my seamanship is surely lacking.  Gods, what a ponderous journey from the Eyrie.”

“It’s good to see you again, Brynden.”

They had squired together in the Ninepenny Wars, some thirty years prior.  They were young and green as saplings then--only fifteen, with dreams of knighthood. Brynden now lived that dream; yet Selwyn had become Lord of Tarth shortly after returning home to see to his ailing father and dying line.

“I never thought Tarth would have the honor of hosting the Knight of the Bloody Gate.”

“Aye, the Bloody Gate is in a bloody state of disrepair, that’s why I’m here.”

“Ah, I see--so you came for my marble, is that it?”

Selwyn had already guessed at it.  Marble was one of Tarth’s most profitable exports, and used heavily in the construction of the Eyrie.

“I came to visit an old friend,” Brynden said earnestly. “My niece Lysa would have rather I stayed and sent another for such business--but a man’s got to leave the Vale every now and then.  The Eyrie tends to get...well, eerie.”

“I’m sure it does.”

The jocular light left the knight’s eyes, and he grew serious.

“After all, mine’s a visit long overdue.  I missed your wedding all those years ago.”

A silence lingered, and neither spoke.  Of course Brynden knew about the death of the Evenstar’s wife, his three children.

“I’m so sorry, Selwyn.  It was a long, dark winter for all of us, but you suffered more than most.”

He nodded, looking out over the harbor.  The sun had risen full over the water.

“I’m better than I was.  Come.  We’ll get you a horse, and ride to the quarries at Marblehead.”

Time passed quickly as they galloped north along the coast.  Brynden had brought two squires with him--bright-eyed and smooth-faced boys who begged for battle stories the entire way, and were obliged.

By the time the sun reached its zenith, they arrived at Marblehead.  The small village was carved of the pale stone which was its namesake, the low-roofed houses thatched with straw.  Children kicked a leathery pig bladder through the clean streets; when they saw Selwyn and his party, their eyes widened.  They forgot their game and ran through the town with shouts of “The Evenstar! Visitors!”

People came out of their houses, stood in doorways and bowed their heads.

There were no shifty-eyed, scuttling fishwives here. The people of Marblehead were less superstitious, more practical than sailing folk. Stone wasn’t whimful and changing like the sea; it was constant, ever-submissive to hammer and chisel. People carved their own fate here, and they were proud for it.

The town’s path crumbled into a pebbly road which led them to the quarry--a yawning canyon of bright rock that boasted a palette of colors, whitish blue to greyish rose. A stonemason covered in fine dust came out to greet them.

“My lord,” he said, and bowed.

Selwyn and Brynden dismounted their horses and shielded their eyes as they climbed down into the quarry.  The midday sun shone fiercely overhead with blinding brightness.  Small wonder that people of Marblehead were dark-skinned, even with their light eyes.

The Blackfish tarried over the color, running his hand along the walls and muttering to himself.  He held up a rock from the Eyrie which was the same shade of sky-blue grey he wished to match.  Everyone stood watching and waiting.  Brynden was doggedly meticulous in everything he did, of course this would be no exception.  Yet Selwyn noticed his friend’s neck was burning fiery red.

“If you take much longer, your skin will turn black like your armor.”

“Black like my heart.”

He leaned in to sniff the wall.  Selwyn sighed and rolled his eyes.

“Are you going to kiss it as well?”

Brynden slowly turned.

“Perhaps.  If you think I’m suffering another journey over the straits just because it turns out I got the color wrong, you have another thing coming.  I like you, Selwyn, but I don’t like you that much.”

Finally, he found a giant chunk of marble which pleased him.  He patted it in approval, and the quarrymen took their pickaxes to the wall.  The squires stayed on to ensure the marble slabs made their way onto wagons and back to the ship, while the Evenstar and Blackfish rode south.

“My own men could have ferried it back,” Selwyn said. “Are you sure the squires are capable?”

“They’ll rise to the occasion,” Brynden said. “I didn’t bring the lads here for a holiday--they need to see a life outside the Vale, be given responsibilities.  A good knight must be well-rounded, well-traveled.”

It was near midnight by the time they reached Evenfall, and a hearth was lit in the council chamber for a late dinner.  Selwyn called for lamprey pie, crab stew, and bread, and large pitchers of ale.  Brynden walked all round the war table, admiring the relief carving of Westeros.  He took a seat at its western coast, running his hands over the Riverlands.

“So, Ser Goodwin is a woodworker as well as a decorated battle knight.  A man of talent, it seems--and well-traveled.  Shame our paths never crossed at Ninepenny.”

“They won’t cross at Evenfall, either.  He’s at Morne this week.”

“Morne?”

“A small island off our eastern coast,” Selwyn said proudly, in between spoonfuls of stew. “Once the site of Tarth kings, and now a rite of passage for all squires. Involves tasks, puzzles, survival skills--whoever performs best receives a medal at the end.”

“Sounds all very charming,” Brynden said.  He lifted his bowl of stew to his lips, but not before Selwyn saw his mocking smile.

“It isn’t charming, it’s rigorous.”

“Any rite of passage that involves a bloody medal at the end is all a bunch of guff.  Medals don’t make a knight.”

Selwyn leaned back and crossed his arms.

“So what would you have them do, then?”

“Easy.  I’d send them all to war.”

Selwyn scoffed.

“You’re no warmonger, Brynden.  Besides, the realm is at peace.”

“Thank the gods for that.”

They lifted their cups, and drank to peacetime.

The Blackfish picked up a warship from the Iron Islands, squinting at its detailed sails.

“Yet I do like this Ser Goodwin.  He strikes me as meticulous.  Very shrewd.”

“I prefer to surround myself with shrewd minds.”

“And in that you’re shrewd yourself,” Brynden said, sopping up the last of his stew with bread. “Far too many lords surround themselves with idiots, only to make themselves feel superior.”

“Well they can keep their false sense of superiority,” Selwyn replied. “Employing people smarter than I am gives me leave to make mistakes.”

A knock sounded, and the door groaned open.  A woman with a squarely scarved head stepped into the chamber.

Selwyn smiled at her.

“Yes, Roelle?”

Her eyes shone soft and golden in the flickering hearthlight.

“My lord.  The gates have been bolted for the evening, the outer wall staff dismissed.  The night guardsmen are Ser Denys and Ser Erreck.  No unusual activity.”

“Thank you, Roelle.”

“Will you be needing anything, my lord?  Another pitcher of ale?”

She nodded toward the table.  They had already drained the first pitcher.

“No, but thank you.  You are dismissed.”

She smiled, and left.

Brynden stared at him.

“What was that?”

“What was what?”

“You know well what.”

“My daughter’s septa.  Another shrewd mind.”

“A _septa_ just gave you your nightly report?”

Selwyn supposed it was a bit odd.  But he kept few close.

“Ser Goodwin’s absent, and my maester is at the Citadel.  Roelle is adept at many things.”

“But a _septa_ , for gods’ sake!”

“She’s not what she seems, I assure you.  And I trust her.”

The knight stared at him a moment longer.  Then he shrugged in acquiescence, and lifted his cup.

“I’ll drink to that.”

“To trustworthiness?”

“No, to things not always being what they seem--it’s a better toast.”

Their cups clinked, they drank.  They finished the stew and tucked into the lamprey pie.

“So where is your daughter, anyway?”

“She’s at Morne.”

“Whatever for?”

“She’s a squire.”

Brynden paused with his fork before his lips.

“You’re joking--right?”

Selwyn shook his head no.

Brynden burst out laughing.  Pie crust flakes flew across the table, and Selwyn flicked them off his sleeve.

“Welcome to Tarth, where septas stand in for knights and noble girls fight!  Can’t fault you for lack of an open mind, my lord.”  He drank more, but kept laughing.

“Less my open mind, more her insistence,” Selwyn sighed.  Yet he couldn’t help but smile.  “She’s rather good, actually.”

Ale frothed over Brynden’s whiskers, and he wiped it away, still chuckling.

“I don’t doubt that she is good--if she’s her father’s daughter.”  He downed the rest of his ale, and smacked his lips in consideration.  He shrugged again.  “Sure, why not?  The women of Bear Island donn themselves in mail.  Mormont ladies go to war alongside their husbands--your daughter may well set such precedence for Tarth.”

“It’s the whole husband part I’m worried about,” Selwyn said, uneasily.  “The first betrothal I set for her failed. You heard about the Carons--a chill took them last year.”

“Mmm.  Bad luck to catch a deadly chill in summer.”

“Bad luck happens in all seasons, I know that better than most.  But I’ve had time to think since then, to watch Brienne grow, and--she reminds me too much of myself.  She won’t be happy with just anybody.  She’s only ten but I see that even now.”

“Then don’t worry about it.”

“I have to worry about it, it’s my family duty.  You don’t know what it’s like.”

Brynden sputtered.

“Did you really just tell a Tully he doesn’t know about family and duty?”

Selwyn remembered.

“Of course--‘Family, Duty, Honor.’” The Tully house words.

“And don’t forget, the fourth word is Guilt,” Brynden said, chewing and waving his fork at Selwyn.

“But you already have a brother, a nephew, family ties to the Starks and Arryns.  Brienne is all I have.”

He traced the bottom of his cup, and glanced at the carved outline of Tarth.  His legacy.

“I suppose she wouldn’t be if I just married again and had a whole heap of sons.  Like everyone says I should do.”

“Fuck what everyone says you should do.”

Selwyn looked up.

“Really. Fuck them all.”

Brynden’s eyes had an all too sober glaze to them.  Tryingly sober.

“If only it were that easy,” Selwyn said. “And you’re drunk.”

“I never said it was easy.  And you’re not drunk enough,” he said, reaching for the pitcher and refilling Selwyn’s cup. “I would die for my home if I had to. But until then, I live my life as I please.  So should you.”

“You and I are different men, Brynden.”

“No-- _no_ , we’re not.”

Brynden drained his cup once more, then leaned across the table.

“You’re just a stubborn old goat like me, Selwyn.  Sometimes being a stubborn old goat is all you have left to hold onto. Don’t let anyone take it away from you.”

Selwyn smiled, then poured more ale into the knight’s cup.

“Brynden Tully, you are a breath of fresh air from the Eyrie.”

“Better than a lot of hot air.”

“You’re that, too, at times.”

Brynden lifted his cup in concurrence.

They drank to stubbornness.

 

-

Brienne

-

 

They rode long into the night, ever eastward toward the coast.  They passed through the shadowy mountains, felt the winds of Essos blow against their cheeks. What tasks and treasures awaited them at their destination, none of the fourth-year squires knew.

Yet Brienne had only been in training for one year.

Ser Goodwin initially placed her with the second-years; she was their age and already an excellent horserider.  Still, Brienne grew too skilled, too quickly--she cut down her peers before they even had the chance to strike.  Aside from that, she was much taller and stronger.  It simply wasn’t fair for them.  So, Ser Goodwin took her out of second year, skipped third year entirely, and placed her into fourth--just in time for the rite of passage at Morne.

They boarded the ship in the dark early morning, horses and all.  The sea was calm, and only the faintest whisper of wind carried them over the water.  Dawn took the sky and the wind blew stronger, finding its way in the light.  Ahead of them, the isle of Morne rose from the water like a giant, green wave, frozen at its greatest height.

They lowered sail and anchor next to a single shabby dock that extended from a sandy spit.  The squires and horses clopped over the swaying dock, clanging and clinking.  All had brought their best swords, arrows, and armor--duels and tourneys would surely be part of the week ahead.  They formed a crescent around Ser Goodwin, who stood without a horse.  Strangely, he carried no weapons himself; only a leather sack at one side, and a heap of thick netting and metal posts on the other.

Ser Goodwin counted the squires silently. “Six,” he murmured. “Where’s the seventh? Where’s Turnip?”

A donkey burst out of the ship, hawing and kicking down the dock.  Its rider was a small boy with curly blond hair and skinny limbs, trying desperately to hold on.

Ser Goodwin stared at the boy with dull tolerance as he struggled to regain control of his mount.  The boy’s real name was Turner, but his mother sold root vegetables at the market and he was exceptionally small for his age, so the nickname stuck.

Turnip finally calmed the beast, and thrust a handful of hay into its mouth.

“Sorry,” he said in his high-pitched voice.  “Ser Droolsworth was quite wary of the gangway.”

Ser Goodwin squinted at him.

_“Ser Droolsworth?”_

The boy shrugged.

“I thought he might be more tame if I renamed him.  Drool was never a very nice name to begin with.”

A thick string of drool swung from the animal’s lip as he chewed his hay, a vacant stare in his big wet eyes.

Ser Goodwin sighed impatiently.

“A good rider tames his mount through assertion, not by giving the animal a bloody knighthood.”

“Yes, Ser.”

“Now go join the others, we’re wasting time.”

Turnip rode up beside Brienne. She avoided his gaze--the boy had clung to her like a burr on wool the entire way from Evenfall. He had barely even tested into fourth year, and Brienne didn’t need his constant presence to make a mockery of her. What she really needed was to prove herself, and make allies with squires who were capable.

She glanced out of the corner of her eye at the other five boys. Four were sailor’s sons--Alfyn, Timyn, and the two Myles.  Alfyn was tall and mean, with a black cap of hair and dark eyes; Timyn was his shorter, curly-haired sidekick. Both were capable swordsmen, but she had such a long-standing feud with them, there was small chance of making amends.  The two Myles also stuck together, different as they were--Big Myles was a husky, broad-shouldered redhead who carried a mace; Little Myles was beak-nosed, thin, and had stringy brown hair which always looked greasy.  He preferred a bow and arrow as his weapon.  And then there was Will--a boy with dark skin and light eyes, whose father was a stonemason at Marblehead.  He seemed well-rounded in all manner of weaponry, though his greatest strength was his calm and steady nature.  Brienne’s father had always praised the people of Marblehead for their intelligence and common sense.   _Perhaps he will make a good ally,_ she thought.

“As you all well know, Morne is the site of Tarth’s kings, from centuries ago,” Ser Goodwin said. “It is tradition before you receive your capes to spend a week here and pay respect to your origins.”

All the squires nodded. Their horses could feel their excitement, and pawed at the soft, white sand.

Ser Goodwin drew something from the bag.

"And of course, you've all seen this before. The Medal of Morne."

He held it up. Murmurs rose amongst the squires.

It was a clasp, in essence--its two parts a golden sun and silver moon linked by a chain, glinting in the sunlight with just the slightest turn. The legendary knight Ser Galladon of Morne had himself worn such a clasp upon his cloak; now it was awarded to one squire each year--a coveted traveling trophy of sorts.

A large gull that had been picking at seaweed along the shore stopped to look at the medal in interest, cocking its head. Ser Goodwin noticed the gull and whistled a brief tune. The bird extended its large, silver-tipped wings, and flapped over. Ser Goodwin bent to offer the prize. The squires all gasped as the bird gently took the medal in its beak, and flew away.

"That bird just took the Medal of Morne!"

"Not just any bird, a herald gull,” Ser Goodwin said. “Sacred animals to Tarth, and extremely smart creatures."

“But how do we get it back?!”

“That’s for you to find out.”

He withdrew a rolled map from the bag. “You also have some tasks to complete, some places to visit. Each place has a puzzle to solve, and a token to bring back to ensure you completed the puzzle.”

He hesitated.

“Without your weapons.”

Brienne’s jaw dropped. So did everyone else’s.

“What?”

“Tensions get high at Morne. We had an unfortunate incident some years prior when two squires ended up killing each other in a duel to the death.”

“Really?” Little Myles whispered.

“It was during the years of the Evenstar’s curse,” Alfyn whispered back.  He shot Brienne a dark look, but she averted his gaze.  She had long learned it was best to ignore him.

“Ever since then, no weapons at Morne,” Ser Goodwin said.

“But--”

“Drop them.”

Sighs and groans filled the air, but they did as they were told, dropping swords and bows into their sandy sheaths.

“Big Myles, that means you too,” Ser Goodwin said.

Big Myles grunted and let his mace fall to the sand with a soft thud.

“Being a knight isn’t all about brawn.  You have to use your brain occasionally.  Some of you lot could use that reminder.”

He held up the map.

“You have a week here to survive, find water and food, visit all these places.  I suggest you manage your time wisely.  This island is bigger than it looks--especially with such rough paths.  It will take you longer to get from one point to the next than it does on Tarth.”

“But aren’t you coming with us?” Turnip asked.

“Gods, no,” Ser Goodwin said with disdain. “This is my annual holiday.  I’ll be stringing up a hammock right between those two palm trees and working on my carving.  If you disrupt me before your seven days is up, I’ll make you repeat the entire year.”

“What if it takes longer than seven days?” Brienne asked.

He studied her a moment.

“If you don't come back by sunset on the seventh day, the ship sails without you.  You'll have to find your own way.”

He held her gaze as if to affirm he made no exception for her.  Then he thrusted the rolled map into Will’s hands.

“Have fun, and good luck.  I’ll see you in a week.”

They all stared at him dumbly as he gathered his netting, hammer, and metal posts, and made his way to the palm trees.  He glanced back at them.

“I’m giving you five seconds to get out of my sight, or else you’re all disqualified.”

No more prompting was needed.

They drifted down the beach a few hundred yards, and happened upon a large, white rock.  It stood in the water, rising tall and wide as a ship.

Will squinted at the map, turning it.

“It’s Gull Rock--nesting home of herald gulls.”

Something glinted the very top of the rock.

_“The Medal of Morne!”_

Alfyn, Timyn, and both the Myles splashed into the water toward the rock.

“Bad idea!” Will said. “You’re only going to get covered in bird shite!”

Sure enough, the rock moved in a flurry of white as a hundred herald gulls cried and flapped toward them. The horses whinnied in alarm, bucking their owners into the water. A frenzy of gulls swarmed around the four horseless squires, raining white and grey upon them.

The loose horses galloped toward the jungle’s edge, kicking up clouds of sand.  Will’s own horse saw the stampede, bucked his rider flat on his back, and took off after the rest.

“I’ll get them!” Brienne shouted.  She snapped her reins and Sunburst snorted in disapproval, but obediently broke into a gallop toward the line of palm trees.

After an hour-long, painfully laborious chase through the jungle, she emerged. She was covered in scrapes and bug bites, yet she led all the horses behind her and tethered them safely to a tree.  The other squires still stood at the shoreline, staring at Gull Rock.

“I rescued the horses,” Brienne announced as she approached them.

Turnip gave her a cheerful smile.

“Good job, Brienne!” he said.  Ser Droolsworth the donkey smacked loudly on a piece of kelp.

Yet the other squires said nothing, as if they hadn’t heard her at all.

 _At least Turnip was smart enough not to lose his own mount,_ Brienne thought.  

“Tide’s coming in. If we want to make a running attack, we need to do it now.”

“Obviously, that didn’t work the first time.”

“Perhaps there’s another way we can get the medal.  What do they like?”

“Oh I don’t know--shiny things?  Like the shiny thing they have that we want?”

"They like songs!” Turnip said. “Brienne, you take singing lessons--you could sing to them!"

She felt herself turn red.

“I’m not singing to them,” she said lowly.

“I’ll sing to them!” Turnip said.  His voice was high-pitched and grating.  The gulls just looked at him and cocked their heads.  One fluffed his feathers and nestled his beak in his wing.

"Great, now they’re asleep.  Any other ideas?"

“Perhaps we should forget Gull Rock, and go somewhere else on the map,” Brienne suggested.

“That’s a great idea!” Turnip said.

The rest ignored her.

Another few hours passed.  The sun lolled westward in the sky, and the sea glittered golden.  Many of the gulls had left the rock to hunt for dinner.  Alfyn and Timyn waged a cold staredown with the birds that remained.  The two Myles were close behind--Big Myles was hungry and tried to eat kelp, but couldn’t get it down.  He hunched over, making wet choking noises as Little Myles slapped him on the back, helping him to cough out the weed.  Turnip picked along the shore for shells and treasure, Ser Droolsworth ambling close behind him.  Brienne checked on the horses again.  She had to separate Sunburst--somehow, the mare never got along with other horses; their encounters always ended in kicks and bites.  Brienne tied Sunburst to her own palm tree, then wandered to where Will sat on a piece of driftwood, studying the map.

"Gull Rock isn't even listed as a task,” he mumbled to himself. “We shouldn’t linger here."

“I agree," Brienne said.

Will looked up at her, surprise in his light blue eyes. He glanced to the others, then back to her.

“Come help me with this map--the others are rubbish at reading.”

They had so much to explore.  Treasure Cove, the Wishing Falls, Lover's Lagoon, the Castle Ruins, the Sword of Stone, the Mossy Village, the Jungle.  Each had a riddle of four lines.

“Most of them aren’t too bad,” Will said. “We need to get a copper coin from the Wishing Falls, a bone from Treasure Cove.  The Castle Ruins riddle is really difficult.”

Brienne turned the map so she could read it better.

 _With weeds my stones are overgrown_  
_Gather them aside to show my marble bones_  
_Some hollow hide a treasure of old_  
_More cherished than ilver ad ld_

“We have to weed the ruins,” she said. “That much is clear.”

“But that would take for bloody ever.  And what in seven hells is ilver ad ld?  Is it Valyrian?”

“I don’t know Valyrian,” she said.

The more she read the riddle, the less sense it made.  It didn’t even rhyme at the end.

“Thank you, by the way,” Will said quietly.

Brienne looked at him, confused.  He didn’t meet her eyes.

“What?”

“For rounding up the horses,” he said. “You didn’t have to, but you did.  I don’t know what we would have done.”

She stared at him.  He stared at the map.

It took all her courage, but she had to know.

“Why didn’t you thank me before, in front of the others?  Why did you wait until now?”

“Because,” he sighed, glancing nervously to the others. “They don’t want you here.”

Brienne didn’t understand at first. And then she did. Her throat tightened.

“I see.”

She had spent so long gathering those horses.

“It’s Alfyn and Timyn who don’t like you, really.  But the two Myles both follow whatever they do.  And that’s four out of seven already...”

She stared down at the map to hide the tears swelling in her eyes.  The words of the riddles blurred.

“It’s all right.”

“It’s not my choice--”

She just wished he would stop talking.

“You don’t have to explain it to me.”

A tear ran down her cheek and dropped onto the parchment, blotting the ink of the riddle for the Castle Ruins.

She wiped it fiercely away, but only smeared it worse.  The riddle was now illegible.

Will took the map from her hands.

“I...better go see what the others are doing,” he said awkwardly, and left.

She sniffed in a deep breath, calming herself and wiping tears.  Sandy footsteps came near.  She heard the slurping and grunting of Ser Droolsworth, the clinking of glass.  Turnip sat down next to her with a saddlebag full of bottles.

He took one out of the sack and held it up to the sunlight.

“Glass of Morne!” he said with reverence.

Brienne said nothing.

“My mum will love these.  I’m sure she can sell them at the market for a good price.”

“It’s just junk, Turnip.”

"To some people it’s not.  You’d be surprised.”

In her blurred peripheral vision, she saw his cheerful expression turn to a frown.

“Hey--are you okay?”

He rested a hand on her shoulder.  She shook it off.

“I’m fine.”

“Really?  You don’t look it.”

“Just go away, Turnip.”

He didn’t.

“Is it about them?”

Brienne was about to tell him to piss off, but then she heard sharp cries of distress.  She looked up.  Alfyn, Timyn, and the two Myles were chasing two gulls along the shoreline, pelting stones.  One bird hopped along on a single leg, the other seemed to have a broken wing.  Will just stood frozen, watching the scene unfold.

"Stop!” Brienne cried, running to them. “Stop it, don’t hurt them!”

She cut in front of them, blocking their chase.  Alfyn tried to punch her, but she caught his wrist and twisted him away from her.  He yelped and fell face-forward into the sand.  Timyn came at her from behind, but she turned and kicked him in the groin. He howled and doubled over in pain.  The two Myles backed well away.

The gulls cried and flopped into the rising tide.  They swam for the rock.  Brienne sighed in relief.  Hopefully they would be all right.

Alfyn hoisted himself to his feet again, wiping sandy muck from his face.

“Well, there goes supper!  Thanks a lot for that.”

“We can’t eat them, they’re sacred animals.”

"They’re stupid animals.  And we’re all starving--we haven’t eaten since yesterday.  We need to find food, remember?"

“It’s bad luck to hurt them.”

“You’re bad luck!”

“Me?  You’re the one who let your horse get away!”

His dark eyes flashed with fury, but then they stilled.  He studied her, incredulous.

“Have you been crying?”

“No!”

“Gods, you have!” he laughed. “Hey everyone--we’ve not been on Morne for a full day, and the girl is already crying!”

Timyn and the two Myles laughed along.  Brienne looked to Will for help, but he just stood there.

“Tell us, Brienne,” Alfyn said. “What are you even here for?  Are you going to be a knight someday?  Or are you just here because you’re so ugly, your own father can’t bear to look at you?”

They continued to laugh.  Brienne blinked back tears.  If she could fight, she would--but sharp words always rendered her motionless.

“That’s enough, Alfyn,” Will said softly.

Alfyn turned to him. “What--is she your girlfriend now, Marblehead?”

“She is not my girlfriend.”

“No?  You looked awful cozy sitting on that log over there.”

“We were solving the riddles.”

“Riddles!  I love riddles.  Here’s one.  If she doesn’t leave right now, I’m leaving.”

“That’s not a riddle,” Timyn said, frowning.

Alfyn whacked him upside the head. “Of course it’s not, you moron.”

Understanding dawned on Timyn. “I’m leaving too if she doesn’t leave!”

“Us too!” Little Myles said.  Big Myles crossed his meaty arms in concurrence.

Brienne looked at Will.  He held the map in one hand.  The other hand clenched open and closed.

“Will?”

His eyes met hers.  They were filled with shame.

“I’m sorry, Brienne.”

“But it isn’t fair--I don’t even have the map!”

Will tore off a corner of the map and held it out to her.

“You can go to the Castle Ruins.”

“That’s the hardest task!”

“You blurred the riddle--it’s yours. You’re on your own, now.”

Her stomach burned with anger, but her throat was too tight with tears to speak.  She took the piece of parchment.  With legs numb and heavy as lead, she went to untie Sunburst.

“She’s not on her own! I’m going with her!” Turnip shouted.

She turned.  So did the others.

“You’re all idiots!” he said. “You were all stupid enough to run to the rock.  You lost your horses.  She got them back, and you only make fun of her.”

“Please don’t make this worse, Turnip,” Will said.

“Oh, shut up Will!” Turnip shouted. “You think you’re the leader.  That you’re so wise and know what’s best.  But if you ask me, you’re a fraud.  I’d rather follow her than you, any day.”

He mounted Ser Droolsworth with as much ponderous dignity as his small, skinny frame could muster.

“Good thing I didn’t ask you, then!” Will said. “You’re no help anyway!”

Just then, a gull dumped a puddle of grayish white onto Will’s head.  He recoiled in disgust, and shouted profanities at the rock.

Brienne felt too in shock to even find joy at that.  With fumbling fingers she untethered Sunburst.  She mounted, and they started into the jungle.

“Hey Brienne! Wait up!” Turnip cried.

“Leave me alone,” she said, not bothering to turn.

She cracked the reins, and Sunburst picked up the pace for a while--but the path narrowed, overgrown with ferns.

It would be a long ride.

The jungle was warm and damp, thick with the songs of cicadas and the musk of strange plants.  Amber light filtered through the leaves.  It changed to red, and then deepened to dusky violet.  Darkness closed in around her, and the temperature cooled.  She heard the calls and rustlings of night creatures--the metallic clicking of lizard talons, the cries of giant fruit bats.  Sometimes the snuffle of a boar.

And every now and then, she heard other noises--the clinking of glass bottles, the stubborn bray of a donkey.

“If you’re going to follow me, could you at least find a way to be quiet about it?” she shouted into the darkness.

“Sorry,” Turnip answered, some hundred yards behind her.

She sighed in annoyance, and pushed Sunburst further forward.

Yet when she set up camp for the night, in front of a blazing fire and turning a fish she’d caught in a nearby stream, she saw his sparks in the distance.

“Turnip?” she called.

“Yes?”

“Do you have food for the night?”

There was a long pause.

“Yes.”

“What _kind_ of food?”

“Roots, worms. Some strange berries I’m not entirely sure about.”

She sighed.

“Get over here.”

He came over, glass bottles clinking and Ser Droolsworth in tow. They ate their fish in silence.

“You might as well bring your sack over,” Brienne said.

Sleeping in pairs was better for safety, anyway. She took the first watch--her eyelids were heavy, but she couldn’t quiet her mind. She stared into the crackling fire, thinking of what the boys had said. How she could have responded better.

“You know they’re just jealous, don’t you?”

She jumped. Turnip stared at her over the top of his sack. The shadows cast by the firelight made him look a bit older, even with his plump cheeks and tight blonde ringlets. Yet his voice was still that of a small, pestering child.

“Go back to sleep, Turnip.”

“I can’t, not when you keep speaking aloud like that.”

She didn’t realize she was doing it.

“You’re the best fighter and they know it,” he said. “They’re jealous.”

She threw a few twigs into the fire.  They curled and burned.

“Why did you stand up for me?”

“Maybe because no one’s ever stood up for me.”

“You pity me.”

He sat straight up.

“I don’t pity you!  I envy you!  I’m like them, I wish I could fight like you!  Seven hells, I wish I was as big as you!  But at least I’m man enough to admit it.”

Turnip, with the matchstick limbs and unchanged voice.  More man than the others.  Brienne hid her smile, but not fast enough.

“Now who pities who?” he said. “You know I’m lowest of the low.”

“And so that’s why you followed me?  Because I’m the second lowest?”

“I followed you because you were the only other squire not covered in bird shite.”

She laughed, for what felt like the first time in days.  It probably had been days.

“Well, I hope you don’t regret it,” she said, looking up into the darkness. “We have a lot of work ahead of us.”

He took the next watch, and she slept.  She dreamt of glass bottles, gulls with silver wingtips, scornful eyes.

When she surfaced, something warm and wet fell on her cheek.  The smell of grass filled her nostrils.  She cracked open her eyes.

A large pair of black eyes and a wet nose were staring back at her, half an inch from her face.  A thick string of drool dangled from its mouth.

She bolted up from her sleeping sack and yelled.  The donkey brayed and ambled clumsily into the bushes.

“Ser Droolsworth!” Turnip yelled after the beast. “You startled him, Brienne!”

“He startled me!” she said, wiping thick spittle from her cheek. “I woke up to his drool on my face!”

They spent half the morning searching for the donkey, but to no end.

“He may have gone back to the beach,” Brienne said.

The boy glanced into the thicket forlornly.

“We have to press forward, Turnip.”

“What if he never comes back?”

“Well...it’s not uncommon for squires to lose their mounts at Morne.  Perhaps Ser Droolsworth will find himself a nice mare.”

Turnip sighed.

“At least he didn’t have my saddlebags already.”

He hoisted them up onto Sunburst, their contents clashing and clinking.

She rolled her eyes. “Couldn’t you leave some of those bloody bottles behind?”

“We might need them!” he protested.

It took them the better part of the afternoon to scale the clifftop of Morne.  Soon, the trees thinned and birdsong died away--only wind and waves sounded from far below.  The incline grew steeper, strewn with loose rock and rubble.

Finally, with great effort and protesting on Sunburst’s part, they summited.

The wind blew hard, whipping strands loose from Brienne’s long braid of hair.  She swept it back from her eyes and dismounted, surveying the new surroundings.

She had expected to see something grand, something beautiful--a castle they could at least walk into and explore.  But all that remained of the stone keep was a single wall and half of a crumbling tower.  The rest was just rubble.

Strangely, the perimeter of the clifftop featured seven stone pillars arranged in a circle.  Actually, they were more like short stumps than pillars, and her best guess was that they once formed an outer wall.  Whatever their history--the stumps were covered in weeds, like everything else.

Turnip slid off Sunburst.  He fell to the ground with a thud.

“We have to weed all this?” he asked, dusting off his bottom.

“It isn’t possible to weed all this.”

“But that’s what the riddle told us to do?”

“I think so.” She looked at the map again. “There was a strange word--but the riddle’s blotted out, and I can’t remember it.”

“Perhaps you’ll remember in time,” he said cheerily. “Come on, let’s get started!”

It was the only thing to do.

The work was long and laborious.  Simply walking through the weeds was treacherous--they continually tripped over hidden stones and cut themselves on swordgrass, sharp enough to slice through skin.

They found shovels, small spades and forked tools leaning against what must have been the old well.  But weeds grew out of the well’s mouth like hair, and no amount of pulling and digging could ever clear them.  For the first time, Brienne was thankful for the spare glass bottles Turnip had brought.  It would rain soon enough, and they could fill them.

She also marveled at his quick skill with a spade and weeder--in this respect, he was actually stronger than she was.

“Well, I am a farmer’s son,” he said, pulling up another giant weed with root attached. “No offense, but I daresay you’ve never gardened before.”

Indeed, she hadn’t.

Brienne was thankful by the time night fell.  The sun had been unforgiving, and burnt her neck and scalp to a red, fiery crisp.  Her arms were more sore than they had ever been from a day of sparring, and her back felt stiff as a wood plank.

They supped on a bitter meal of worms, soft grass and dandelion heads.  She had seen a few chipmunks scampering about, but they were too small to be worth the effort.  She wondered what the other boys might be eating.  Fat trout at the Wishing Falls, and lean, muscled deer from the jungle no doubt.  They were surely warmer down there.  Up here, the wind blew strong and bitter cold.  Even trying to keep a fire going proved futile--so they curled up on opposite sides of Sunburst for warmth.

On the third day, they weeded from dawn until the last dying light.  The third day turned into the fourth, and the fourth into the fifth.  Even though the ruins were beginning to look better, they still hadn’t uncovered any treasures.  And try as she might, Brienne still couldn’t remember the riddle.

It stormed on the sixth day--a hellish snarl of a tempest that soaked them skin to bone.  Rain pelted down throughout the night, and the wind raged fiercely. When the sun shone on the seventh day, they were so sore and aching they could barely move.

“At least we have some water for the return journey,” Turnip said, crouching before a puddle.  He filled a glass bottle, and corked it with a bit of leather.

Yet the storm had made a mess of their efforts.  Loose weeds were strewn everywhere, and it actually looked worse than before they started.

“It’s no use,” Brienne said, throwing down her tools. “We’ve failed.”

“Are you sure you don’t remember the riddle at all?”

“I remember that it didn’t make any sense.”

She walked over to the cliff’s edge.  The shores of Tarth were visible, a thin line of sand below the mountains.  Somewhere behind those mountains stood Evenfall, and at Evenfall there were knights and squires who had solved the riddle in years past.  What was its secret?

“I wonder if the others have found the medal yet,” Turnip said.

“Who cares about the stupid medal,” she muttered. “If I had it right now, I’d fling it into the ocean!  I just wish I knew what we were supposed to _do_ here.”

Brienne paced back and forth, thinking.  She grew so lost thought, she forgot where she was going and tripped over one of the stone stumps.  She kicked it in fury.

_Thump._

It sounded hollow. _Hollow_ \--wasn’t that part of the riddle?

“Some hollow hide a treasure of old  
More cherished than…”

She wandered over to another, shorter chunk of the wall. She kicked it.

_Thump._

This chunk of wall was also hollow, but sounded a higher tone than the first.

 _“Some hollow hide a treasure of old_  
_More cherished than…”_

“More cherished than what?” Turnip asked.

“That’s what I’m trying to remember.”

“It must rhyme with ‘old!’”

“That’s the thing, it didn’t.  That’s why it’s so hard to remember.”

The wind picked up heavier and stronger.  Turnip sat down with his bottles and uncorked one to drink.  The wind blew over the top and made a low hum.  He laughed, and uncorked the other bottle.  It hummed a different note.

Brienne felt annoyance rising in her chest.

“Quit dallying, Turnip, you need to help me if we want to figure this out before--”

She stopped.  The wind seemed to sing as it hummed over the bottles.

“Some hollow hide a treasure of old…”

Turnip stared at the bottles, too.

“Brienne...I don’t think those stumps were part of a wall.”

Their eyes met, wide and knowing.

_“Pipes!”_

They grabbed their tools, and rushed to scoop dirt and weed from the pipes as quickly as they could.  Brienne forgot her aching muscles, her stiff back.  They dug and dug, then scraped and scraped.  They emptied six pipes, and the wind sounded over them, singing six strong and different tones.

She remembered. She stopped digging.

 _“ilver ad ld!”_ she exclaimed.

“What?” Turnip asked, dirt and grass flying from his hands and over his shoulders.

 _“ilver ad ld!”_ she repeated. “It’s supposed to be silver and gold, but there are missing letters. The missing letters spell song!”

“What in the world are you talking about?”

 _“With weeds my stones are overgrown_  
_Gather them aside to show my marble bones_  
_Some hollow hide a treasure of old_  
_More cherished than silver and gold!”_

Turnip’s face lit up.

_“The Song of Morne!”_

They uncovered the last pipe--the largest of them all.  As the wind moved over its lip, the last tone came thrumming from its depths; a deep bass that resonated in their chests.  The song was complete, and sounded all around them.  Brienne spun in circles and laughed, and Turnip jumped up and down.

“We did it!  We did it!”

But then she remembered the task was not complete.  What about the token?

“Brienne, look!”

She turned to see a large bird gliding toward them from the beach.  It carried something in its talons, glinting so bright in the setting sun, they had to shield their eyes.  They stood frozen as the gull flew above them, flapping its wide, silver-tipped wings.  It hovered over the two squires, and seemed to look from one to the other in consideration.  Finally, the gull unclenched its talons, dropping the prize directly into Brienne’s hands.

A silver moon and a golden sun linked by a chain.

_The Medal of Morne._

-

How they made it back to the ship in time and all in one piece, Brienne would never know.  They scrabbled down the mountainside, skidding and slipping as the sun dipped low in the sky, sinking beneath the water.  Only the dimmest light remained by the time they arrived at the beach.

The gangway was lifting back into the ship.

“Wait!” Brienne cried.

Ser Goodwin turned.  Even from this distance, she saw his tensed shoulders, his brow creased with worry. He relaxed at the sight of them, and the other squires leaned out to stare.

“They’re late!” Alfyn protested. “We should leave without them!”

Ser Goodwin ignored him, and commanded Big Myles to drop the gangway.

They clambered over the swaying dock, and boarded the ship.  On deck, Brienne saw a spread of prizes from all the other riddles--bones, coins, pottery, an animal’s sharp tooth, the giant leaf of a rare tree.  Near the treasures were their sapphire-blue capes, neatly folded in preparation for the cape ceremony.

A donkey brayed loudly.

“Ser Droolsworth!”

Turnip dismounted Sunburst and rushed to hug his long-eared beast.

“You made it back!”

“Aye, he made it back in time,” Ser Goodwin said. “He made it back on the second day and ensured my holiday was full of hee-haws and slobbery wake-ups. You’re lucky I’m not holding that against you.  You’re also very lucky that we were having trouble hoisting the anchor, else would have sailed already--”

His words stopped when he saw the medal in Brienne’s hands, shining brightly in the dying light.  His face softened, and he smiled.  The fierceness in his eyes turned to pride.

“Well, then,” he said. “There it is.”

He reached for one of the sapphire capes.

Brienne looked around at the other squires.  All eyes were on her, gleaming dark with jealousy.  She looked down at the medal in her hands.  Suddenly, it felt too heavy.

Ser Goodwin fastened the cape under her shoulder plates.

“Only a squire with a great deal of patience and perseverance can finish the riddle at the Castle Ruins,” he said. “Usually, it’s the most humble and the hardest-working squire who takes on such a task.”

He reached for the medal, but she closed her fingers over it.

“Wait.  I have something to say.”

Ser Goodwin looked at her curiously.

“It’s not me who earned it.  The Medal of Morne belongs to Turnip.”

Little Myles gasped.  Alfyn and Timyn sighed in disgust.  Will’s brow furrowed in bewilderment, and Big Myles’ mouth dropped open like a trout’s.

Turnip’s eyes widened to the size of saucers.

“Are you sure, Brienne?” Ser Goodwin said.

“Yes,” she said. “I never would have figured out the riddle without his help.  He’s a champion weeder.  And he stood up for me, even when I couldn’t stand up for myself. ”

She walked across the deck, and pressed the token into Turnip’s small hand.  He stared at it, speechless.  For a moment, Brienne thought he might cry.  Or perhaps laugh.  But then, the moment changed.  He puffed out his chest, gripped the medal, and looked out to the ocean.

Brienne’s stomach flopped. She lunged forward, trying to stop what she knew was about to happen.

“Turnip, no!”

Too late.

He hurled the medal into the deep blue sea.  It hit the water with an unceremonious _plop._

This time, there were no sighs or gasps. All heads turned in silent horror to observe the ripple in the water as the medal sank down to its deep, watery grave. Brienne glanced to Ser Goodwin. A vein had popped in his neck, all the way up his forehead.

 

-

 

“Here, my lord. I’d like you to meet the two dumbest squires Evenfall Hall has ever seen.”

Ser Goodwin pushed Brienne and Turnip into the Great Hall, the tall doors closing behind them. They had only arrived back at Evenfall, and found the Evenstar at the head table, finishing dinner. He dismissed his mistress and the guards, and frowned at the two armor-clad children in front of him.

Brienne looked down, avoiding her father’s gaze.

“Where are their capes?”

“I thought we should delay the cape ceremony until they spoke with you, my lord.”

Silence filled the hall.

“Well, go on!” Ser Goodwin said. “Tell him how you spent an entire week at the ruins, finally figured out the bloody riddle, made it back to the ship in the nick of time, and then threw the Medal of Morne into the sea.”

“They _what?”_

“I didn’t!” Brienne said. “Turnip did!”

“You may as well have done it yourself--it was yours to begin with,” Ser Goodwin snapped. “The gull gave it to you, didn’t it?”

“Yes, but--Turnip deserved it more than I did. At the time, anyway.”

She glared down at the boy. He cringed.

“You said yourself at the ruins you would throw it in the sea if you had it!” Turnip protested.

“But of course I didn’t _mean it!”_

“That medal was a piece of Tarth history,” Lord Selwyn said. “Do either of you have any idea how old it was?”

“No,” they both said at the same time.

“Over a hundred years old.” He frowned at Turnip. “I don’t understand.  Why?”

“I don’t know, my lord.” Turnip’s voice was shrill and wavering as it found its way. “It just seemed--silly.”

Brienne shut her eyes in embarrassment.  She just wanted to crawl into a hole and hide forever.  If only she hadn’t given the medal away.

“Go on. Why did it seem...silly?”

Turnip pinched the sleeves of his leather jerkin, and chewed his lip.  He took a deep breath.

“Everyone else cared so much about getting the medal, and I never expected to.  It didn’t make me feel any different in the end.  I wanted to show everyone else it didn’t matter.  Medals don’t make a knight.”

Lord Selwyn stared at him a long moment.  Then he smiled.  And then he laughed.

His deep-bellied laughter echoed throughout the Great Hall.  Brienne had never heard her father laugh so hard, and she thought for a moment he was angry, or perhaps in pain.

“Are you all right, my lord?” Ser Goodwin said. “My lord?”

“Yes--I’m quite all right.  Oh, I just wish Brynden were still here.  He’d have adored this.”

“Who’s Brynden?” Brienne asked.

“Someone else who doesn’t give a toss about what others think,” he said, still laughing. “The world needs more Turnips and Blackfish, that’s for certain.”

_Blackfish?_

Brienne glanced to Turnip, but he looked just as befuddled as she felt.

“I’ll speak with the silversmith and goldsmith and have another medal forged, my lord,” Ser Goodwin said.

“No, don’t bother,” Lord Selwyn said, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes. “Perhaps it is time for a change.  That stupid medal.  I remember being so worried that I wouldn’t win it myself.  When I did, it was more relief than pride.  Such a burden!  It probably does belong at the bottom of the sea.”

“Does this mean we get our capes?” Turnip asked hopefully.

Lord Selwyn’s expression changed.  He drew in a sober breath.

“No,” he said, with finality. “Ser Goodwin--come up with a new challenge.  Something meaningful that forces their class to work together instead of apart.  That’ll be their reward and their punishment, before any of them receive their capes.”

“As you command, my lord,” Ser Goodwin said.  He put his hands on the squires’ shoulders, signaling them to leave.

“No!” Brienne shouted.

Everyone turned to stare at her.

“The rest will hate us for it,” she protested. “They’ll make our lives miserable. They hate us enough already.”

Her father studied her a long moment. He stroked the whiskers on his chin.

 _Please,_ she begged him silently.

Yet his expression did not soften.

“Ser Goodwin.”

“Yes, my lord?”

“Put these two in charge of designing the new challenge.”


	12. Gold, Silver, and Lead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ser Goodwin POV, Brienne POV, Selwyn POV.
> 
> Ser Goodwin spends time at Hydda's Inn before a highly-anticipated tourney at Evenfall; Brienne must lead her squiremates in a challenge so that they may earn their capes; Roelle tells Selwyn a story.

-

Ser Goodwin

-

“You’re nervous, Ser Goodwin.”

He hammered at the eaves with lusty fervor, sweat dripping from his brow. The sound ripped through the forest, knocking on trees and ricocheting back to the old inn.

“You’ve been workin’ four hours straight, love,” Hydda pressed.  

He paused to shake out his arm, and looked down at the woman. She was round and dressed in brown, hair a bird’s nest as always. She held a tray with bread, cheeses and ale. Her kind dark eyes searched him, concerned.

“Don’t call me love,” he said.

“I call everyone love.”

He turned back to his work.

A recent storm had done some damage when an old oak fell on Hydda’s Inn. The wench couldn’t afford repairs, so Ser Goodwin resolved to fix the roofing himself. He didn’t mind. The work kept him busy, and even better--got him away from Evenfall.

“You keep that up without a break, and your back will be so stiff and sore tomorrow the Evenstar will have to cancel the whole tourney.”

“So much the better,” he said. “But I doubt he would.”

Yet his back did ache. He set his tools aside, climbed down the ladder and sat slumped on a low rung. He accepted a horn of ale from her and downed it.

Hydda set the tray next to him, and took to sweeping wood chips and dust from the porch.

“Like I said, you’re nervous.”

“Of course I am. But not for me--for them.”   _And for Brienne especially,_ he thought.

“Surely they have a chance. Seven on one in a melee!”

“Seven green squires against one battle-tested knight who taught them everything they know? I doubt it. But they need to win, in order to get their capes.”

“Then let them.”

“Not an option. Lord Selwyn expressly forbid it.”

She squinted at him, resting a hand on her ample hip.

“And how would he know?”

“He’ll be watching. And trust me--he would know.”

He bit off a hunk of bread, and washed it down with more ale.

“I’m nervous for his daughter most of all,” he mumbled through more mouthfuls. “Lord Selwyn charged her with leading this challenge to build her confidence, but it’s been a tough year for her. The boys tease her relentlessly. It may be tougher yet after tomorrow.”

Hydda nodded, and sighed.

“It’s a tough age for girls. But Lady Brienne’s a tough girl. She’s a fighter. Just give her the confidence she needs, and she’ll find her own way.”

Ser Goodwin looked up at her and smiled. Perhaps she was right.

The first time he met Hydda, he thought her hideous with her thick eyebrows, overly plump figure and double chin. Most of all, he was horrified by her overt infatuation with him. In time, she relented her pursuit and settled for friendship. He had grown fond of her company--her lightheartedness and genuine nature. There was no hideousness about her at all now. She just looked like herself, comfortable in her skin. Indeed, she had a type of softness and femininity that was all her own. There was even something about the late afternoon light that made her glow.

Or perhaps he was losing his mind. He poured out the rest of his drink and climbed back up the ladder.

He finished his work on the eaves just as dusk fell. Bubbling chatter, lively music, and the smell of roast wafted upward, beckoning him inward.

The inn would be busy tonight. Ser Goodwin hoped to go unnoticed as he was covered in sawdust and unarmored--but no such luck. As soon as he opened the door, men slapped him on the back and brought him horns of ale.

_“Be gentle on the lads tomorrow, Ser Goodwin. Our sons are among ‘em.”_

_“A battle-seasoned master-at-arms against his own squires--doesn’t seem a fair challenge, does it?”_

_“Aye, but they got youth on their side!”_

Cups clinked and laughter filled the room. The singer Copper Tongue stood on a table, sawing away at his cello like a madman and belting out a merry tune. He looked like an overgrown elf in his pointed cap, brightly-colored vest, and mismatched shoes. A crowd of children gathered around him, squealing and giggling. Ser Goodwin smiled. The singer had often served this purpose at Evenfall, as a child-minder. But such was the pure joy of his music, it was impossible for anyone not to revel in it--so it always puzzled Ser Goodwin why the singer was dismissed from Evenfall in the first place. Something to do with Septa Roelle’s disapproval, no doubt.

Copper Tongue finished his song, and the whole inn clapped and laughed. The singer leapt from the table, and approached Ser Goodwin at the bar. He bowed deep with a flourish of his hand, bow and ‘cello extended to the side.

“My deepest, most humble regards to the most decorated knight of Evenfall. Thou art a man of many talents, a carpenter as well as a fighter, a luthier, a true scholar of human nature--”

“Oh, stop it and get up you fool,” Ser Goodwin said. He slid a horn of ale across the bar. “Have a seat, drink with me.”

Copper Tongue swung his ‘cello around on his back, and did as he was bid; he sat next to the knight, and drank thirstily from the horn.  

“It is good to hear your music again. You’ve been much missed at court.”

Copper Tongue wiped the frothy ale from his mouth with his sleeve. He smiled at the knight, his eyes alight with merriment.

“Yet there are still singers at Evenfall? The little ladylet loves music.”

“She’s not so little anymore. And there are singers, but all are vetted by Septa Roelle.”

“Ah, Septa Roelle,” Copper Tongue said. There was some dark remembrance in his face.

“She was the reason you were dismissed in the first place. Why?”

He shrugged.

“She’s from Nightsong.”

“And? What does that have to do with anything?”

“The nightingales are...rather choosy about their musics,” Copper Tongue said.

Then his eyes widened and he leaned in to the knight, as if telling him a secret.

“Ancient songbooks,” he said, wiggling his fingers and speaking softly. “Magical melodies that can cast spells.”

Ser Goodwin scoffed.

“I highly doubt that.” He knew Roelle was far too smart to believe in such nonsense. “But truly, I am half-sick of the music choice at Evenfall. Your songs are better. They sing directly to the heart.”

Copper Tongue beamed with pride.

“Well, if his lordship will have me back, then his wish is my command!”

Ser Goodwin shook his head.

“Lord Selwyn has little to do with music anymore ever since that one embarrassing incident a few years ago. When he saw his dead wife in the form of a singer.”

He once thought somehow Roelle she was behind the incident, but she wasn’t. He could tell from her face; she was taken aback as the rest of them. But there was also some recognition in those yellow eyes--some excitement, some fire and mischief. _What was she thinking? What was she planning?_

“Aye, music can be very powerful,” Copper Tongue said quietly. “It is a bridge from the soul to the body.”

The knight caught a chill at that. The singer left to take his place on the table to play more songs.

He drained his horn dry to flood away the chill, but it lingered on. He would have to drink himself into oblivion to rid himself of it. He reached for the singer’s unfinished ale.

A meaty hand slapped him, and took away the horn.

“Not too much, love,” Hydda said with sternness. “It wouldn’t be right for you not to be on top form tomorrow. You need to do your best.”

“Why should I even bother?” he groaned.

“Because your ale is on the house for the next year if you win.”

“Really?” The knight laughed. He had gambled in tourneys before, but this was the first time someone had placed a bet with him on himself.

“Ale for an entire year--quite a handsome prize indeed. And what shall I offer you if I lose? A new-thatched roof?”

She cleaned a copper cup as she she thought, but seemed stuck for an answer. Instead, she gave him a sly smile.

“I’ll think on it, Ser Goodwin.”

-

Scores of onlookers arrived at Evenfall the next day--they had traveled from all corners of Tarth to witness the tourney. Stone workers from Marblehead, farmers from the midlands, sailors and fisherman from the port town. The people all squeezed next to each other, peering down from the parapet walks above and leaning over the low walls that lined the sparring yard.

 _A lot of fuss for what will surely be an unremarkable event,_ Ser Goodwin thought.

He stood on one end of the yard, the squires on the other. They were fully helmed and armored, and had just been checked to see that their swords and daggers were blunted. For some reason, Little Myles had insisted on having his bow and a quiver of arrows. Blunted arrows were absolutely useless, and Ser Goodwin wondered at why he chose to have them at all.

Lord Selwyn strode out to the center of the yard, looking taller and more imposing than usual--he was clad in light armor, his fine leathers belted over a long, magnificent robe of azure blue that accentuated his great height. He looked around, and the crowd fell silent.

“This is an important event,” he announced. His deep voice resounded through the yard and echoed off the castle walls. “A challenge devised by squires themselves--and what better challenge than to take on their own master-at-arms before they earn their capes?”

Ser Goodwin’s grip tightened around his hilt.

“Normal melee rules apply. Upon a fighter’s first yield, he--or she--is immediately disqualified, and must exit the yard.”

There were some murmurs and whispers at _she_.

Brienne was only 11 but surpassed most her peers in height, even though she was two years their junior. She stood almost as tall as Big Myles, and he was close to six feet. In full armor that hid her face, she could actually pass for a grown man.

“That one there?” he heard one young woman whisper. “That’s the Evenstar’s daughter? But she’s enormous!”

Their muffled giggles made him want to turn and smack them with one strike of his steely gauntlet. But of course he didn’t.

_Just give her the confidence she needs, and she’ll find her own way._

Meanwhile, Lord Selwyn had returned to his place behind the half-wall. He brought his hands together for a single clap, and the crowd roared.

Ser Goodwin felt a rush, and then calm washed over him. The noise drowned out, and his focus sharpened on the squires.

Timyn approached him first, running with sword extended. The boy moved quick and sure, but there was tension in his shoulders. Their swords clashed together once, then twice. Upon their third contact, the boy couldn’t match the knight’s strength--he lost his grip on the hilt. Ser Goodwin grasped the sword, knocking the boy into the dirt with the dull edges of two swords crossed on his neck. He yielded, and the crowd groaned.

He knew the squires’ strategy was to tire him, one by one, while conserving their own strength. That was good. Novice squires would attack all at once, exhausting themselves and giving a stronger target the advantage of proximity--like children all racing to kick a pig’s bladder at once instead of taking turns. But Ser Goodwin had taught them better than that.

Alfyn was next--taller, quicker, and stronger than Timyn. Yet he had a bad habit of striking without forethought. Within minutes the boy was on the ground, Ser Goodwin’s short sword at his neck and the crowd groaning again. “How many times must I tell you that fighting isn’t all in the striking!” he hissed. Alfyn yielded, and slumped off with a limp.

Then came Big Myles, swinging his mace on a chain. The lad had monstrous bulk and strength on his side, but neither speed nor endurance. It should have been easy for Ser Goodwin to simply tire him out through parrying; yet he erred and came too close. The tourney mace had a longer range than he remembered, and the ball of iron sank hard into his breastplate. It knocked him back and stole the wind from his lungs. Before he recovered, the brutish lad was on top of him. Ser Goodwin contemplated a yield--he could get away with it, and let the squires win. Yet for an instant in his blurred vision, Big Myles looked like Hydda. _You need to try your best,_ she had said.

The thought was enough for him to summon back his fight. With a guttural growl he freed one arm, tore off Big Myles’ helm, then headbutted him with his own helmed head. Blood spilled forth and the lad howled and loosened his grip--Ser Goodwin rolled him over, then stood with foot on his head and sword at his back. Big Myles yielded with a weary grunt.

Ser Goodwin got to his feet and caught his breath. He focused his eyes and saw Brienne unsheath her sword. _She should be last, she’s the best swordfighter._ Yet the remaining squires had dispersed to different points in the circle, and Ser Goodwin eyed them warily as Brienne made her approach.

High, low, overhand and underhand their swords clashed. After the blow of the mace, Ser Goodwin breathed roughly but knew his strength was still enough to defeat her. He tested her when they crossed swords, holding her in the steely lock. She endured it, pressing back. His arms began to burn. For a moment, he forgot the nature of the tourney and thought he was in a real fight.   _She’s only 11. She’s only 11._ _How can she be this good?_    Finally, she sprang backwards, catching his parrying blows as he followed her. They circled, and the squires around them circled, too.

In his peripheral vision, Ser Goodwin saw that Little Myles had his bow in hand, arrow notched. Yet the knight’s divided attention cost him dearly--Brienne lunged for him again and nearly delivered a head blow. He caught it in time, but not at the most favorable angle. Their swords were crossed again, but this time Brienne had the overhand advantage, and pressed into him.

“NOW!” she shouted.

An arrow loosed, whistling overhead with rope attached. It fell on the cross of their swords, and Will caught the arrow on the other side. When Ser Goodwin realized that the squires meant to entangle him, he instinctively jumped back, but tripped--Turnip had balled himself up behind his feet in the chaos. The rest was a blur. In moments, the squires had him surrounded, looping the rope tight around his body, pinning his arms to his torso and pushing his head into the ground. He felt a short sword at his neck. The only movement he could manage was to smile into his helm.

“Yield,” the girl’s voice commanded.

He did.

-

Brienne

-

He had said the words, but her muscles stayed tensed. Through the thin slit in her helm, she kept her gaze trained on her short sword at his neck.  

“All right, Brienne. You can let him up now.”

Her father’s voice. She heard him smiling. The crowd roared and cheered.

_We did it._

She finally climbed off the knight’s back, rose to her feet and took off her helm. A long braid tumbled loose, strands of hair sticking to her temples with sweat and dirt. She tasted blood on her lip, swollen from biting it. Her shoulders ached, and she still gasped for each painful breath. It had taken all her strength and then some to hold Ser Goodwin as long as she did. The deafening crowd continued to clap and bang on stone and cheer while her father donned them in capes of sapphire blue. Even Ser Goodwin smiled, rubbing the sweat from his eyes.

“You outsmarted me, all right,” he said. “Though not in an entirely chivalrous manner.”

“We didn’t break any rules!”

“No, but you did bend them a bit,” Lord Selwyn said. “I daresay the trick would work again on Ser Goodwin. But you did accomplish an incredibly difficult task. And you did it together, with skill. Well done.”

The other squires’ families poured from the seats, a crowd gathering around the squires and Evenstar.

_“Well, congratulations!”_

_“Most riveting melee I’ve seen in all my years.”_

_“And whose genius was it for that finishing stroke?”_

“That was all Brienne!” Turnip said. “Tell them how you got the idea!”

Brienne smiled shyly. “From embroidery.”

“Well, well--the work of a lady helps with the work of a warrior! And what a pretty lady she is.”

“So tall, and clever.”

“Excellent footwork, Brienne,” a man standing behind Alfyn said. “My stepson here could learn a thing or two from you, couldn’t you, clumsy?”

Alfyn scowled.

“Dancing does help with footwork, actually,” she admitted.

“Well there you are. And I’m sure you’re a very graceful dancer indeed. Perhaps we’ll sign this one up for some dancing lessons, eh boy?” He grinded his knuckles into Alfyn’s head, mussing his black hair.

Brienne couldn’t help but laugh. It felt good to be validated not only as a warrior, but as a lady--especially in front of Alfyn. For years he had been the ringleader of sneers and rejection of everything Brienne said and did. But now everything would be different. She had proven herself a leader.

She looked around at the others.

Little Myles smiled ear to ear and demonstrated proper bow hold and aim to some younger squires, while Turnip explained the advantages of being small. “Bigger people can’t see you, so they don’t know what to expect!”

Nearby, Ser Goodwin inspected Big Myles’ tourney mace.

“It was an extra chain link that made the reach longer,” he admitted. “I had it reforged in town.”

“Ah ha,” Ser Goodwin said dryly. “Well, you all used the element of surprise to your advantage, didn’t you?”

Brienne felt a light tap on her shoulder, and turned. Will stood before her.  

“I just wanted to say--well done.”

“Well done yourself,” she said. “It was a good catch you made.”

He frowned.

“Are you kidding? I barely did anything at all. You were the real star.”

She blushed.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “For being an ass last year, at Morne. For doubting this would even work. But it did. You’re a real leader. And from now on, I’ll have your back.”

Brienne couldn’t think of what to say.

“I’ll see you at the Knight’s Feast, tonight--right?” he asked.

“Of course!”

She wouldn’t miss it for the world. The Knight’s Feast was an annual celebration for the guardsmen and caped squires--a night of revelry, games, and battle stories. Brienne and her class had been officially accepted into their ranks; they would be knights.

-

Later that evening, Septa Roelle scrubbed and scoured her skin with a block of hard lye soap. Dirty brown water trickled down into the bath. But to Brienne, it sounded like music and bells.

“It’s such a relief we finally have our capes,” Brienne said. “The hardest part was getting the boys to follow my idea. But it worked!”

Her septa said nothing. She left the tub and went to the wardrobe, leafing through dresses.           

“You saw the melee, didn’t you?” Brienne asked, climbing out the tub. She donned a dressing gown and sat before her vanity mirror, brushing out the tangles in her long wet hair.

“Of course I saw it.”

“I had the idea for entangling Ser Goodwin in an embroidery lesson. So you’re to thank as well!”

“Which dress would you like to wear tonight?”

Brienne stopped brushing. She saw Septa Roelle’s reflection in the mirror as she held up two dresses--one azure with silver embroidery, the other rose with gold details.

“A dress?” Brienne laughed. “I’m not wearing a dress--I’m wearing my leathers and armor like the rest of the squires.”

Septa Roelle sighed, and tossed the dresses over a chair.

“Yes, of course. Why should I expect any different.” 

Brienne heard the crisp disapproval in her voice. She put down her brush, and turned around.

“Why aren’t you happy for me?”

Septa Roelle stared at her with those piercing yellow eyes, and firmed her lips. She paced closer and licked her thumb, kneeling down to wipe away a smudge of dirt on Brienne’s cheek. Her touch was always so hard and cold.

“I want to be happy for you,” she mumbled. “But I can’t. Not when you’re ruining your life with that silly sword.”

Normally, Brienne would shut her mouth and not say anything--it was best not to argue. But she had been so happy, so confident in the yard. She couldn’t allow that feeling to be taken away from her.

“Father said I could be a lady _and_ fight.”

Septa Roelle stood up and looked down at her. She was the very picture of sternness in her grey robes and rigid scarf that framed her face. The drabness of her garb made her yellow eyes look brighter, fiercer.

“Your father means well, but he’s wrong.”

Brienne shot up from her chair.

“No he’s not.”

She stood taller than her septa by a hand, but the woman’s sharp look of contempt made her feel small. Heat rushed to her face as she summoned all her courage.

“This isn’t about me at all, is it?” she said. “It’s all about you.”

“Shut your mouth,” she said lowly.

“I won’t--”

“You will.”

“It’s not my fault you couldn’t be a lady!”

Septa Roelle reached up and slapped her, hard. Brienne was so surprised, she fell back into her chair, holding her stinging cheek.

“Look at you. You’re only 11 but you’re enormous. You should be getting curves at this age, but swordplay has made you square. The sun has cursed you with freckles. You’re clumsy, and your nose has been broken in more than once. No, it’s not your fault that I couldn’t be a lady. But it’s not my fault if you won’t be one, either.”

Tears pricked Brienne’s eyes, but she blinked them back.

“The men at the tourney today said I was pretty. That I was bright and clever and tall, and _graceful_!”

Septa Roelle smiled. A pitying smile.

“You poor thing. They only say such words to win your lord father’s favor.”

She gently took Brienne by the shoulders, and turned her back to the vanity. Their eyes met in the mirror. How different their faces were. Septa Roelle’s features were small and neat, with a delicate nose that was pink and almost translucent at the tip. Brienne’s features were too broad, and seemed not to fit her face. And it was true, her nose was a bit crooked.

“You’ll find truth in your looking glass,” she whispered. “Not on the tongues of men.”

Brienne sat frozen as Septa Roelle turned and walked away, the reflection of her grey-robed figure diminishing as she slipped out the room. The door shut with cold finality, leaving Brienne alone with her image.

_You’ll find truth in your looking glass..._

She stared a moment longer. Her hair was still wet and knotted with tangles, and she brushed out them out fiercely, biting her lip and shaking all over. How she hated the way words wounded her. Yet she wouldn’t let them ruin this night of all nights. _If only words were swords...I could fight back._

At least she wouldn’t have to worry about Septa Roelle for the rest of the night. She braided her hair, put on her leathers, light armor and boots, and made her way down to the Knight’s Feast.

-

The antechamber to the Great Hall was newly decorated. The squires all wandered through, gaping in awe at their surroundings.   Ornate curtains hung from the walls, framing the standing suits of armor that lined the room. Some were bronze with spiked gauntlets, others silver with gold details and feathery plumes in the helms--but all shone brilliant as the sun. This was armor donned by famed knights of bygone times, most identified by a nameplate on their wooden base.

“Brienne!” Turnip said, pointing to a suit in front of him. “Come look at this one.”

She saw instantly that the breastplate was different. It was slightly curved--as if forged for a woman’s shape.  

“Indeed, Tarth once boasted many warrior women, long before the age of kings.”

Brienne turned to see Ser Goodwin standing behind her. The master-at-arms looked fresh and proud even after his public defeat in the sparring yard today, armor buffed out and shining just as bright as the suits on display. His appearance was always immaculate, with his clean nails, short-clipped hair, and shaven face which boasted a battle scar that jagged temple to jaw. The melee had gifted him new scrapes--albeit smaller ones that would fade in time.

“Why aren’t there any women warriors now?” she asked.

He smiled.

“Obviously, there is one.” He leaned over slightly. “Good work today. You made me so proud I could hardly stand it.”

She watched him stride out the antechamber through the tall double doors. Her heart beamed--he didn’t often give out compliments, so this was special.   Turnip had heard the praise as well, and smiled up at her with his wide, boyish grin.

“That could be your armor someday, Brienne!” he exclaimed. “You’ll be the first lady warrior from Tarth in hundreds of years!”

“No such chance. That’s armor for a _woman_ \--not the likes of her.”

Alfyn had appeared beside them, his arms crossed and lips curled into a sneer.

“Shut up Alfyn!” Turnip shouted.

“You shut up, you sniveling little fart!”

“He’s right, here’s no place for your jeers,” Will said, glaring hard at Alfyn. “We’re a team--remember?”

Big Myles and Little Myles stood nearby, glaring in solemn solidarity.

“I was just joking!” Alfyn said defensively. “Gods, can’t you all take a joke? Anyway--I’m sure you’ll be able to wear the lady armor soon enough, Brienne. It’ll be quite becoming on you.”

He was mocking her, she knew it. She finally found her voice and opened her mouth to speak.

But then Timyn came bursting through the doors, holding a horn of ale in each hand. His green eyes were already glazed over with drunken merriment, his brown curly hair mussed and wild.

“Well, what in seven hells are you all waiting for?” he laughed. “Stop staring at those boring suits and let’s get into the hall already, before the ale runs dry!”

The Great Hall echoed with men’s laughter, shouts, and the sound of clinking cups. All the knights and squires of Evenfall were present, and the newly caped class had the honor of eating at the head table with the Evenstar--which should have been nothing new for Brienne, yet this was altogether different. In the past, feasts requiring her attendance were courtly and civilized affairs; she sat next to her father in a dress, and everyone made polite conversation. This was anything but courtly and civilized--she saw some men wrestling, and others playing drinking games. They even put their elbows on tables while eating--Septa Roelle would sputter with indignation to see it. Brienne put her own elbows on the table as she picked up her horn of ale and sniffed it. The closest she had ever tasted to real ale was ginger beer. She took a timid sip. It was dry and bitter. She wrinkled her nose and shook her head.

Her father saw, and laughed.

“You’re still too young for it,” he said, and handed her a cup of water. She drank deep to dilute the bitterness on her tongue.

Servants hobbled in with an enormous roast boar on a platter, hoisting it onto the table. The head was still attached, and facing her direction. Brienne looked at it uneasily.  

“Why do they have to leave the heads attached?” she asked.

Her father raised a bushy grey eyebrow at her.

“Really, Brienne? You defeated Ser Goodwin in the yard today, but now a dead pig’s head gets the best of you?”

“We never even eat the head.”

“It’s for decoration.”

“It’s _ugly_.”

Lord Selwyn sighed, but he smiled and rotated the platter so that the pig was no longer facing her.

“Better?”

“Better.”

“I do so often forget you’re still my tender-hearted daughter,” he said, and kissed her forehead.

She smiled, but then a thick sense of unease coiled in her stomach. _He forgets I’m his daughter?_ She remembered Septa Roelle holding up the two dresses.

“Father--do you think I should have worn a dress tonight?”

He looked at her with surprise and incredulity. He glanced to the rest of the hall, then back at her.

“Of course not,” he laughed. “You would have looked utterly ridiculous.”

She frowned.

_Utterly ridiculous?_

A few supple harp notes filled the hall. Singers and musicians were warming up on the floor, and it caught Brienne’s attention. How she loved music, and her own singing lessons--a lady art she knew she excelled in. Even her septa had said so.

“Septa Roelle says that I’ll be ready to sing a recital next year--”

But when she turned back to her father, he was gone. 

“I love songs,” Turnip said, slumping back into the seat to her left. He hiccuped. “It must be so nice-- _hic_ \--to live here in the keep at Evenfall, you-- _hic_ \--get to hear music every night and-- _hic_ \--learn to sing properly!”

“Are you drunk, Turnip?”

“Of course not!” he squeaked. His cheeks were pinker than usual, and his bright eyes were lazy and half-lidded. He reached for his horn again.

“No--don’t. You’ll get sick.”

“Oh come on Brienne,” Alfyn said, standing over them. Timyn was next to him, and poured Turnip’s horn full to the brim with ale. “You led us to victory today--you should drink with us.”

“I don’t really care for the taste,” she said.

“It’s not about the taste.”

“I’d rather listen to the music. And you’re blocking my view.”

He sneered at her. “Fine, then.”

Timyn whispered something in his ear. Alfyn laughed.

“What is it?” she snapped.

Every time they whispered and laughed, she assumed it was about her.

“We were only wondering--are you going to eat this?”

He turned the platter of roast boar so that it faced her again. It was even uglier than when first brought out--the skin around the nostrils and lips had dried and curled upward so that the pig stared at her in a lopsided sneer. 

“No.”

Alfyn and Timyn looked at each other and smiled.

“Good.”

They grabbed the platter and hastened away, giggling. Brienne was thankful to finally be rid of them. She leaned forward with her elbows on the table, listening to the music. It was a lovely tune, but ever more difficult to hear over the din of clashing cups and ringing laughter. She fixed her gaze on the harpist. The woman was beautiful as a mermaid, with hair that fell down to her hips in long golden waves. Her nose was straight and delicate, her skin pale and clear as moonlight, her cheekbones high, and her light eyes framed by long blonde lashes.

She also happened to be Lord Selwyn’s mistress--his “lady of the year,” as Septa Roelle liked to call them. The ladies came and went, floating through the castle and gracing public events like charms. Then their magic would wear off, and they would leave to make room for another, more beautiful than the last. Yet her father seemed not to care for any of them--he would often forget their names, mistaking one for the previous year’s lady. Brienne thought the arrangement might have something to do with keeping up appearances, but she wasn’t sure. All she knew was that the roles of men and women were confusing, and not quite so simple as they were in stories.

A wet snore drew her from her reverie. Turnip was passed out with his head in his plate, bits of meat and gravy stuck in his blonde curls.

The hall was nearly empty. The musicians had stopped playing. The harpist turned her lovely head toward the sound of laughter--a drunk and sloppy sort of merriment that rippled from the antechamber.

Brienne got up from her chair, and followed the laughter--perhaps someone was performing a trick. She was at the great double doors when Will burst out.

“No,” he said. “Don’t go in.”

He pushed her by the shoulders, tried to turn her--but she resisted.

“What’s everyone laughing about?”

“You don’t want to see it, Brienne. It was Alfyn and Timyn’s idea, and some knights are already taking it down. I promise, you don’t want to see it.”

Nothing could have enticed her more. She pushed Will aside, and made her way through the crowd. Some laughed, some were silent--but once they saw her, they all quieted and parted for her. And then she saw it.

The woman’s suit of armor had been redressed. It wore a pink gown now--stretched obscenely over the armor, busting at the seams. In the place of the helm was the head of the roasted boar, with straw sticking up out of its head. And they had given the knight a nameplate-- _Brienne the Beauty._

A few knights were desperately trying dissemble the monstrosity, but the head was stuck on well.

She stared at it, speechless, then looked around. Everyone stared at her--even the musicians. There was the beautiful harpist, too, with her slender hand over her mouth.

“Thought you would like it,” Alfyn said. “It looks just like you-- _ouch!_ ”

“Come on, you idiots,” another knight said, pinching Alfyn and Timyn by their ears. “Let’s go find Ser Goodwin for you. All right, break it up everyone! The moment has passed, there’s nothing to see here.”

The crowd dispersed, and the knights removed the boar’s head and cut away the dress. But Brienne still stood staring at her image in at the armor, Septa Roelle’s words still whispering in her ears.

_You'll find truth in your looking glass, not on the tongues of men._

She clenched her jaw and turned away.

“Where are you going, Brienne?” Will called after her. “Brienne!”

“I’m leaving. I’m done.”

“What? No! You can’t!”

“Yes I can.”

“Without you we never would have gotten our capes,” Will said. “You’re our leader!”

“If this is what leadership is--I don’t want any part of it.”

Then she threw down her cape, and left.

 

-

Selwyn

-

“Can’t we have one bloody feast at Evenfall without some horrific incident?” Selwyn bellowed.

Hot anger burned in his chest as he paced back and forth in the council chamber. Ser Goodwin, Maester Osmynd, and Septa Roelle sat solemnly at the table.  

“The boys claimed ill judgement as a result of too much ale,” Ser Goodwin said. “It was the first time most of them had ever had it.”

“I don’t care, I want them punished.”

“I have punished them. Additional cleaning duties, for the intentional defacement of castle property.”

“What about the intentional disgracing of my daughter? Cleaning duties are not punishment enough. I want their capes taken from them.”

“But what kind of message would that send, my lord?” Ser Goodwin asked. “She’s your daughter, yes, but she’s also a _squire._ You told me to train her as I would one of the boys, and I have--without preferential treatment. Everyone endures their share of teasing at this age. You know how the lads are. An incident like this is nothing.”

“Nothing? _Nothing?_ It wasn’t nothing to her,” Septa Roelle retorted. “She’s not just one of your boys, Ser Goodwin. She’s a young lady at a critical age.”

Ser Goodwin sighed.

“Before yesterday’s tourney, I might have actually agreed with you--that she’s too tender of heart for it. But it would be such a waste of talent. My lord, you saw how good she was.”

“What would you have me do?” Selwyn said. “She’s already thrown down her cape.”

“Speak to her on it, my lord,” he said, rising from the table. “You’re her father and the only one she’ll listen to now. Persuade her to take up her sword again--it would be a shame for her to quit.”

“Don’t, my lord,” Roelle said. “Brienne has made her decision clear, and we need to support her in it. See it as the end of a phase. See it as an opportunity to think toward your legacy, to make her a new match.”

“No,” Ser Goodwin said quietly. “Brienne was meant to carry out a different type of legacy,”

Selwyn’s heart stopped a moment. He stared at the knight. _He knows._

“She was born for this, my lord.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do. That’s Ser Duncan the Tall’s shield in the armory--”

“--and none of your business.”

“When someone has a calling, they must answer,” he pressed. “She has so much talent and natural instinct, it scares me sometimes. She’s the best fighter I’ve ever trained in all my years, and she’s only 11. I haven’t heard the likes of it since young Jaime Lannister.”

“Jaime Lannister the Kingslayer?!” Roelle scoffed. “Is that your ambition for Lord Selwyn’s daughter?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“What do you think, Maester Osymnd?” Selwyn asked.

The maester had remained silent all this time. He fidgeted with his chains, the collar of his brown robes.

“My lord, I think Lady Brienne should not be pushed. She’s already made her decision. And I do agree with Roelle--perhaps it is best to try and make another match.”

“No!” Ser Goodwin started. “Maester Osmynd, you can’t possibly--”

“Ronnet Connington would be a wonderful choice, my lord,” Roelle said, cutting him off. “He comes from a family of landed knights. His father has been looking for a bride.”

“How do you even know these things?” Ser Goodwin demanded.

“It was Maester Osmynd’s idea,” Roelle said. “He’s already been making inquiries.”

Ser Goodwin stared at them. Maester Osmynd looked away.

“How has she bought you?”

“I beg your pardon--”

“Don’t beg anything of me. I demand to know how she bought you, Maester Osmynd!”

“Ser Goodwin!” Selwyn reprimanded.

“Look at her, my lord. Look at her with that smug smile upon her lips! She’s enjoying this. Pitting you against me. It’s part of her plan.”

“You forget yourself, Ser Goodwin,” Selwyn said.  

“No, my lord you forget yourself! Can’t you see what’s going on here? Because I see it very clearly. It’s not the boys who torment Brienne the most, oh no--it’s _this_ insipid woman, poisoning her and planting seeds of self-doubt in her mind.”

“Absolute slander!” Roelle exclaimed, standing from her seat at the table.   “I only tell her how the world is for ladies. If that’s at odds with your world of men, well--I’m not to blame for it.”

“She’ll never learn to be a lady from the likes of a _witch!_ ”

Roelle laughed, and circled the table toward him.

“You don’t know anything about ladies, Ser Goodwin,” she said with a smirk. “Unless you include that fat hag Hydda you’re so enamored of.”

Ser Goodwin’s eyes flashed darkly, and Selwyn knew what was coming. He rushed to intercept the knight’s strike at Roelle, knocking him back into the war table. A few miniature ships skidded off the edge and broke on the stone floor.

“This council chamber is not your damned sparring yard, Ser Goodwin!” Selwyn shouted, then drew in a breath. “We’re done here. Maester Osmynd, send a raven to the Conningtons.”

The maester nodded, and quickly hurried out.

Ser Goodwin got up wearily.

“My lord, I assure you, you will come to regret--”

“The only thing I will come to regret is your lack of decorum, Ser Goodwin.”

He locked eyes with the knight, staring him down with reproach.

“I’ve made my decision on this matter. You are dismissed.”

The knight drew in a breath as if to say something more. Yet he decided against it, and clenched his teeth as he turned away. Selwyn watched him leave, steel armor clinking in the lingering, cold silence. The door slammed shut.

Selwyn sighed, and bent to pick up the broken ships. Ser Goodwin had carved them himself.

“Honestly, I don’t know what’s gotten into him.”

“It must be very difficult,” Roelle said. “He wants to protect Brienne the best he knows how, but he’s too proud to see that his way isn’t best for her.”

“Who knows if there is a best way.”

Selwyn put the broken ships on the war table, near Tarth’s port. He remembered his easy conversation the year before with Brynden Tully, who had advised him not to worry about legacy, to let things run their course. But solving problems with an old friend over an ale pitcher or three was different from confronting them head-on.  

“You’re doing the right thing, my lord.”

“Am I?”

He went to the window, and gazed out into the bleakness of the overcast afternoon. The hilltop was barely visible.

“It was Helaena’s will that she marry for love.”

Roelle said nothing, and he was grateful for it. He rarely spoke his wife’s name, and always regretted when he did. It made him miss her more. Were she here, she would have known what to do. Of course, a lot of things would be different if she were here.

“Roelle?”

“Yes, my lord?”

“You once said that you’ve seen...ghosts.”

She looked down at her hands, folded on her skirts.

“Just the one. My mother’s, at Nightsong. She visited me nightly over the course of one long winter. So strange to think back on it now--it’s like a dream.”

“How do you know that it wasn’t a dream?”

She lifted her gaze to meet his. Her eyes glowed soft like rising moons, and she smiled.

“I just know, in my heart. If for no other reason, for the stories she told me--they were more real than anything I’d ever read in any book. And I had read all the books. But nevermind, I speak out of turn now.”

“Not at all,” Selwyn said, intrigued. “What kind of stories were they?”

“It’s quite difficult to say. Neither love stories nor adventures, neither epic tales nor parables. They were everything all at once.” She paused. “They were stories that helped me to overcome my loneliness.”

Her voice sounded smooth and soft like velvet. It was peaceful to listen to, and Selwyn wondered why he had never noticed it before. He realized that although she served him as a septa, all clad in drab robes of ash--she was still a woman underneath with qualities and mysteries of her own. Even after all these years, he didn’t even know the color of her hair. She stood not six feet from him, and he could see that her brows were a soft brown; yet the hair beneath her scarf might be blonde, brown, or auburn for all he knew. But not grey. Her face seemed too youthful for greys.

“I should like to hear one of them,” he said, sitting down in his chair. “One of your stories.”

“Would you, my lord?”

He nodded.

She thought a long moment. And then she drew in a breath.

“Most stories take place in the past. This one takes place in days to come, in a far-away kingdom. The king ruled with a fair hand, and was much admired by his subjects. He had a queen he loved, seven gallant sons and seven beautiful daughters. Everyone was so happy. Until one day, a great darkness came. It came out of nowhere--a plague swept over the land, and half the kingdom died within days. So the king tried to stop it. He sent out his greatest warriors and adventurers to find him a cure. They roamed far and wide, and returned with ointments, spells, nectar of rare fruits. Nothing worked. Half his children died. The sun disappeared--the skies turned black and it rained and rained, until seas rose so high they threatened to swallow the entire kingdom. It was as if the whole world were peeling away, and the king truly wondered if this was the end of days. But then, an old soothsayer dressed in rags came to the castle doors. She brought with her three boxes--one of gold, one of silver, and one of lead. ‘Within one of these boxes lay the cure for the darkness that has swept over your kingdom,’ she said. ‘But open the wrong one and your problems will worsen.’ The king asked why she would be so cruel as to not give him the right box. She smiled and told him he had to seek the cure for himself. The king chose the gold box first. After all, gold is the color of the sun and life. He opened it. A dark smoke billowed out, and curled around his wife the queen, taking her life. For not all that glisters is gold. And the king knelt and bemoaned the loss of his lovely queen. But what choice did he have but to try again? He chose the silver box next, for silver is the color of eternity. Another dark shadow breathed out and claimed the lives of the rest of his children. For not all that shines may shine forever--”

“Stop,” Selwyn said. He had risen from his seat. “Stop. No more.”

“But don’t you want to hear--”

“Do you tell this story to Brienne?”

“No my lord, she prefers happier stories--”

“Good. There’s no room for sad stories in a world with too much sadness in it. How could you have possibly taken comfort in such a horrible tale?”

He heard his voice echo in the chamber, and realized he had almost been shouting. In truth, it was a story that was not only too sad, but perhaps too close for comfort. The echoes settled into silence, and he stole a glance at the septa. She looked down, hands folded on her skirts again.

“I’m sorry, my lord,” she said. “I shall take my leave of you now.”

He watched her as she collected her things and started to leave.

“Roelle.”

She turned back to him.

“If Ser Goodwin ever threatens you again, do let me know about it.”

“Yes, my lord. Thank you. And if you ever want me to tell you how the story ends…what was in the box of lead...”

“Not particularly.”

She held his gaze.

“Like I said, it’s a different type of story. It may return to haunt you, as it did me.”

And with that, she made for the door. Selwyn watched her leave, her skirts whispering over the stone floor. Skirts that were the color of lead.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Ser Goodwin. I just realized that someone hits him/knocks him around in every POV of this chapter! 
> 
> Thank you for being patient with my slow updates! Next is the Ronnet Connington chapter which I must say I'm not particularly looking forward to... I'm either going to make it short and to the point or include some POV with a lot of levity in it so that's it's not entirely depressing/angsty.
> 
> And thank you for your readership, as always :-)


	13. Red Ronnet and the Rose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Ronnet Connington chapter.
> 
> Brienne/Goodwin/Brienne/Selwyn POV.

-

Brienne

-

Dawn had not yet broken. Brienne stole into the misty morning as a shadow, the walls towering over her. The grass whispered beneath the soft muslin of her slippers, and birds warbled early morning songs—but all else was still as stone.

Beneath her cloak she wore her dressing gown; she hadn’t slept the whole night. She reached into her pocket for the folded parchment and clutched it close, looking all around. Only the moon kept watch at this hour, casting its silvery light over the grass, the walls, the fountain in the middle of the courtyard. _Good._ She didn’t want to be seen.

“Ser Ronnet,” she whispered into the darkness. “I welcome you to my lord father’s hall. It is good to look upon your face at last.”

That felt easy enough. But darkness and solitude were too kind. At midday, the sun would shine high and bathe the courtyard golden, and Brienne would meet her betrothed here in this very spot.

“It is so good to look upon your face—at last!” Brienne whispered again. Yes, that was better. Septa Roelle had told her that first impressions were most important. She had to get this right.

A rustle startled her. She looked to the tall hedges--but all was still. Likely just a bird struggling with a worm.

She paced to the fountain. It featured a marble-carved Ser Galladon of Morne standing proudly with his sword, the Maiden reclining behind him on a gush of stony waves. The fountain was new--an impressive pageant of Tarth legend and beauty intended to mark the occasion of Brienne’s betrothal. The men from Marblehead would put finishing touches on the sculpture today, then fill the pool and turn on the pumps so that water flowed over the stone like a rolling tide.

“Ser Ronnet,” she said, rendering a deep curtsy to Ser Galladon. “I welcome you to my father’s hall. It is so good to look upon your face at last.“

“Well, it’s good to look upon your face at last, too!” 

Brienne jumped back. A squire boy with curly blonde hair and a great big smile stepped from behind Ser Galladon.

“Turnip!”

He laughed his high-pitched laugh, and she shushed him. Still, if anyone was to catch her rehearsing, at least it was him. He was as short for his age as Brienne was tall for hers, but he had grown a few inches since last she saw him--though it was hard to tell. She had grown so much in the last year, that she towered over everyone her age. And Turnip was even two years her senior.

“What are you doing here so early?”

“Thought I’d check out the fountain before going to the sparring yard. Practice starts at break of day—or don’t you remember?”

“Of course I remember.”

He gave her another goofy grin.

“Then come join us!”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“You know I don’t fight anymore.”

It was last year’s incident at the Knight’s Feast that impelled her to throw down her sword. Alfyn and Timyn had gotten drunk, and hoisted a boar’s head on top of a suit of armor and named it Brienne the Beauty. Few laughed, but everyone saw. The boys were sent to apologize to her the next day—that they hadn’t meant what they did, and should never have ridiculed a highborn lady so.

But Brienne saw through their apologies. And she also saw her own reflection in the mirror. You’ll find truth in your looking glass, not on the tongues of men, her Septa had warned her.

“I can’t be both a lady and a warrior, Turnip.”

“Of course you can! I’m a man and warrior!”

She tried to hide her smile, but he saw it.

“Really, come practice with us.”

“I’m not even dressed.”

“You can change.”

“I don’t know where my sword is.”

“I do. Will and I have kept it nice.”

“I’m out of practice!”

“Even out of practice, you’re better than all of us.”

She sighed.

“Ser Ronnet Connington arrives today. He’s my betrothed, and I need to look my best. Not all bruised and scraped from fighting.”

“And he’s a _Ser_?”

“Yes.”

“Then he should know all about bruises and scrapes. You should challenge him to a fight, have him prove his worth!”

He swashed his sword about, dueling some unseen enemy.

“No, Turnip, that would be awful. Oh watch, be careful you don’t--”

The boy’s sword struck the fountain as he spun around, cracking hard below the maiden’s nose. A chunk of stone fell away. Turnip froze, his eyes large as boiled eggs.

“Oh no.”

Half the Maiden’s lips were gone now, her perfect face blemished.

“I’m going to be in big trouble for that, aren’t I?”

“The sculptors are still here, I’m sure they can do something,” Brienne said, picking up the chunk of fallen marble.

“But the Maiden surely saw!” he moaned. “She’ll send me to whichever of the seven hells suits her for this.”

“She wouldn’t do that. She may well be laughing about it.”

“You think so?”

Brienne stood on her toes and tried to fit the stone back into place. It fell away.

“Well. Perhaps you should say some extra prayers to her, just in case,”

She pressed the marble chunk into his hand. It glittered in his palm. He looked up at Brienne and bit his lip.

“Is Ser Ronnet going to take you away?”

“Eventually.”

“When?”

“I don’t know. I suppose he’ll talk with my father about it.”

It was even possible that Ser Ronnet would take her back on the next ship tomorrow, and marry her straight away at Griffin’s Roost. She was freshly flowered and a woman now, though she didn’t feel like one at all. Women were the ladies who hung on her father’s arm, her septa, even the handmaidens. Not a silly 12 year old girl who felt terrified to meet her betrothed, a man of 18 years.

“Are you sure you can’t spar with us one last time?”

How she wanted to give in--it would feel so good to wield a sword again. To be part of that dance of parries and strikes, that song of steel on steel.

But the blush of dawn was reaching over the walls. Soon enough, noon would be here.

“I’m sorry, Turnip,” she said. “I have to go.”

-

Ser Goodwin

-

The ship came in at mid-morning, when the sun lolled upward into the sky and the water was calm and glassy. A small boat dispatched from the ship, rowing ashore with its sundry contents of merchants, sailors, and other travelers. Ser Goodwin knew straight away which man was his—a young knight with fiery hair, red as the dawn. Ser Ronnet Connington.

The eighteen year-old heir of Griffin’s Roost was a wise and strategic match for Lord Selwyn’s house; as newly landed knights, the Conningtons needed to marry into highborn families to make alliances and grow their influence in the Stormlands--thus positioning Tarth to negotiate the terms of the marriage. The firstborn son would be heir to the Sapphire Isle, and even take the Tarth name and sigil--thereby saving Lord Selwyn’s legacy.

For his own part, Ser Goodwin lamented that Brienne had laid down her sword to focus purely on lady arts and her impending betrothal. _So much talent, gone._ Yet he had to remind himself that she had the whole of House Tarth resting on her shoulders--an early marriage was important. He only hoped that Ronnet was good and gentle; the Evenstar’s daughter had a tender heart.

The boat rowed closer, and docked. Ser Ronnet stepped onto the jetty with an uneasy sway, then pulled himself up tall and straight. He had a good build--lean yet broad, with arms that would thicken with muscle given more years and battle experience. Belted over his mail he donned a leather-trimmed surcoat with red griffins dancing on a field of white. Thick auburn locks fell loose around his shoulders, matching the stubble on his chin and bringing out the blue of his fierce eyes.

Ser Goodwin wasn’t the only one taking measure; behind him, a flock of fishwives had gathered like brown hens to catch the first glimpse of the Evenstar’s daughter’s betrothed.

_“Oh, he’s handsome all right. Very gallant-like.”_

_“But do you reckon he’s taller than she is? I’ve heard tell the Evenstar’s daughter is nigh six feet.”_

_“And look at those long, reddish locks! I wonder if he’s got red hair everywhere…”_

Ronnet shot them a sharp, daggerful look. They erupted into giggles.

“Don’t mind them, it only encourages them if you do,” Ser Goodwin said. He extended his hand, but the young knight only regarded it with disinterest.

“I’m to meet a knight called Goodwin,” he said gruffly. “Do you know him?”

“You’re looking at him.”

Ronnet frowned.

“But you are not in mail.”

He hadn’t bothered. No need for mail or armor on a day when he wasn’t training the boys or leading the guard in formation. Today he wore his town linen and leathers, with a wide-brimmed hat of tightly woven straw on his hip. Indeed, he probably looked more like some burly fisherman than a knight. Yet they had far to travel, and the sun would burn too hot for such knightly livery as Ser Ronnet’s.

“I assure you, son, you won’t be fighting anyone today,” he laughed. “Unless it’s a tourney you’re after instead of a bride.”

“A tourney might suit me better indeed.”

The answer struck him coldly, but he decided to ignore it. He unclipped the hat from his belt and offered it.

“You might need this for the ride--the sun shines bright and hard on Tarth, and is especially unforgiving to visitors.”

Ronnet glanced at the hat with disdain.

“I’ll wear my helm if I need it.”

The older knight shrugged.

“Suit yourself.”

Ser Goodwin attributed the young man’s sour mood to the rough journey over the waves, the stinking harbor. Time and fresh air would dilute the nausea. He gave the young man a skin of water and a horse to ride, and the pair of them started southwest for Evenfall--with only the soft _clop clop_ of hooves to mark the silence.

The sun rose higher, the day grew hotter. Ser Goodwin shrugged off his leather jacket. He glanced behind him. Ronnet’s skin was red as his coat.

“Long summer, hey?”

The young knight grunted.

"Are you sure you don’t want something to cover your head, Ser Ronnet?"

"Quite sure."

 _Stubborn lad, as well as spiritless._ Despite the sweltering heat, Ser Goodwin may as well have been sitting in an ice cave north of the Wall for all the cheer of his company.

Finally, the trees thickened into a shaded wood. Birds sang and brook babbled, and Ser Goodwin breathed in the fresh smell of pine and oak. It was his favorite part of Tarth, and always filled him with peace. Normally he would pay Hydda a visit at her inn and have an ale when passing through these woods, but that would be an hour-long detour at least. He had orders to deliver Ser Ronnet to Evenfall by noon. Still, he longed for a drink and some cheerful conversation.

“Do you have any questions to ask about Tarth?”

“No.”

“His lordship?”

“No.”

“Your future wife?”

He scowled.

“My future wife,” he repeated with a sneer. “Brienne the Beauty.”

Ser Goodwin recoiled. That awful nickname the boys had given Brienne last year. Somehow, it had made its way outside the castle walls and across the sea. Whatever Ronnet presumed of Brienne, it seemed the root of his discontent.

"You have more in common than you may know. Lady Brienne is quite the experienced fighter herself--you'll be a good match for each other in the sparring yard."

He said nothing.

“One would think you were on your way to your execution, not to meet your bride.”

“Same thing,” Ronnet muttered.

Ser Goodwin turned a sharp left, cutting through the woods toward the inn. His horse whinnied in surprise, but obeyed.

“Where are you going? Is this the way?”

“Aye, it’s the way. It’s the way to a nice deep drink.”

The low-roofed stone cottage soon came into view. A small girl with a dusty bonnet stood at the stables, tending to visitors’ horses. She saw the approaching knights and dropped the apples and carrots from her apron, skipping for the old inn door.

“Hydda!” she cried. “It’s Ser Goodwin--and another knight!”

Within seconds, a round woman with patched skirts and a kind smile appeared at the door.

“Hydda?” Ronnet scoffed. “Is that short for hideous?”

Ser Goodwin ignored him. A rosebush was nearby, and he sliced off a stem with his dagger. He swept off his horse, took the innkeeper’s hand to kiss, then pressed the rose into her chubby palm. She blushed, her face breaking into a wide beam that dimpled her cheeks and creased her chins.

“To what do I owe this honor?” she said, giggling girlishly.

“The honor is mine. I’m merely showing this young knight how to properly greet a lady.”

“Ah, the young man come to court our Brienne!” Hydda said. “Isn’t he handsome. But shame on you, Goodwin, you let him catch the sun!”

They entered the inn, where Copper Tongue was already starting his reels and jigs. It was a fairly busy morning--some stoneworkers were having a late breakfast. Ser Goodwin recognized them as the sculptors of the new fountain.

“Marvelous work on the fountain,” he told them. “I suppose you're on your way north to Marblehead?”

“No such luck. We’re heading back after breakfast. One of your squires blemished the maiden’s lovely face with a misguided swing of his sword.”

He groaned.

“Which one?”

“The little one. Parsnip is it?”

“Turnip.”

“Aye, that’s the one. Still growing into his longer limbs.”

“Turnip?” Ronnet scoffed. “Rather unfortunate name.”

Ser Goodwin shrugged.

“A name is nothing but a name. A friend of mine is called the Onion Knight. Don’t see why we can’t have a Ser Turnip. If he ever improves his aim, that is.”

“I have a very good song for the Onion Knight!” Copper Tongue said gleefully, strumming his ‘cello. “I fancy writing one for a Turnip Knight as well.” He looked at Ronnet, his red hair, coat, and face. “I could write one for a Beetroot Knight too, and have a whole garden to sell at market!”

Hydda and Goodwin laughed.

“I’m not called the Beetroot Knight,” Ronnet said coldly. “I'm called Red Ronnet.”

“Red for your hair, red for your cheeks? Or red for--”

“Red for bloodshed.”

“Oh ho!” Ser Goodwin laughed. “Is that so, young knight? What battles have you fought in, then?”

The realm had been at peace as long as Ronnet had been a knight. The only true fighting he was like to have seen were smallfolk skirmishes—stolen chickens or some such.

“None yet but—“

He was drowned out by Copper Tongue, sawing away at his ‘cello and bursting into song.

 _Oh, a knight of red there was with reddish hair_  
_They called him Red Ronnet_  
_For even his face was so fair_  
_The sun would put his mark upon it!_

Music and laughter rang throughout the inn. Ronnet’s jaw tightened, and his face turned even redder.

“Hydda, two horns of ale please,” Ser Goodwin said. “I still need to talk some sense into this young man before we reach Evenfall. In addition to sunburn and delusions of grandeur, he suffers from a case of cold feet.”

“Even on a hot day such as this?” she laughed, pouring the drinks from the keg. “I’ll light a hearth to warm his toes.”

“I don’t have cold feet.”

“Yet you have misgivings,” Ser Goodwin said, sliding an ale across the bar. “Out with them.”

Ronnet cupped his drink tightly, staring into it for answers.

“Is she really as tall as me?”

“Yes.”

“That’s unnatural.”

“You’ll have tall, strong sons.”

“I’ll be the laughing stock of the realm.”

“Ah, then it’s your own image you’re concerned with?”

The young knight’s lip twitched.

Ser Goodwin sighed. He drank and set down his horn, leaning over to the younger knight.

“Let me tell you something, lad. Looks mean nothing. It is what’s inside that counts.”

He gestured to Copper Tongue.

“Look at this--man, if you call him that. Never wears matching shoes but he plays that ‘cello like a creature possessed, and he’s bloody brilliant at it. And these men over there--they look like ordinary stonecutters, but I’ve known them this past year and can tell you they’re true artists. They can chisel a slab of rock into the most wondrous creation. And the stable girl outside who collects the eggs and tends the traveler’s horses--do you know she also speaks five languages? And Hydda here--”

Hydda looked at him, anticipation in her big brown eyes.

“She is the kindest woman on Tarth you can ever hope to meet.”

She beamed, blushing from neck to brow.

“If you scorn people based on looks alone, you make a habit of not bothering to look beneath the surface. And if you never look beneath the surface of things, the world will treat you harshly indeed. Besides—this is a better match than your father could hope to make. It will carve your name in history.”

Ronnet scowled.

"I’d rather carve out a name for myself through knightly accomplishment.”

“There’s time enough for that.”

“You don’t understand. I just want to choose my own life.”

That was fair enough. For the first time, Ser Goodwin felt empathy for the young knight.

“I understand. You’re a young man, newly knighted. Your whole life ahead of you--what adventures wait! And now your father has decided a good chunk of your life for you. Of course you’re bitter. Yet here we are, at a crossroads. Lord Selwyn wants a suitable match, but he also wants a willing one.”

Ronnet stared into his unfinished ale.

“Perhaps I can see her first--”

“No,” Ser Goodwin said firmly. “You need to make a decision, and you need to make it now. If you know in your heart that you cannot do this, I will escort you back to port and we’ll put you on the next ship to Griffin’s Roost.”

The younger knight traced the bottom of his horn, mulling over the matter.

"If I left now--what would you tell the Evenstar?"

"The truth. At the very least, he would be thankful for your honesty and for not wasting his time."

"My own father would not be happy with me."

Ser Goodwin shrugged.

"That’s one price to pay, if you truly desire to make your own fate and live by your own rules.”

Something seemed to turn in Ronnet’s eyes at that thought. He took another deep drink, then set down his drained horn with decisiveness.

“We ride for Evenfall.”

-

Brienne

-

It was past noon now. Still no sight of them. Brienne sighed, and stared back down at her book. She had been reading the same paragraph for an hour.

The window where she sat overlooked the sparring yard. Turnip was shooting blunted arrows at a target. He had remedial lessons--once he proved that he could wield tourney weapons with precision, his real ones would be given back to him. Will was with him, for moral support. She wished she could be there, too.

Yet the day had other events in store for her.

With great caution, she rose and stepped lightly to her vanity mirror. The reflection staring back at her looked as uncomfortable as she felt. Her ruby red silk dress was tight, the bodice studded in garnets. She didn’t think that red was her color at all. It brought out her freckles.

_You must wear red for Ronnet, her Septa told her when they were choosing fabric. A lady always wear the colors of her betrothed when meeting him for the first time._

The dress was so tight that she dared not eat, or even drink, though her mouth was dry as hay and her stomach rumbled with hunger. In addition, Septa Roelle had styled her hair into an intricate spiral of latticed braids that resembled a golden seashell on her head. Yet her hair was fine, and strands came loose easily. Any unladylike movement at all might disturb the creation.

The sweltering heat did nothing to help her. She felt like a roast in an oven. Her cheeks were mottled pink, and she picked up a fan to cool the heat from them.

An arrow sailed through the window. It bounced off the stone wall and down to the floor. Brienne smiled and picked it up, rushing to the window.

Turnip and Will stood far below, looking up at her with shielded eyes.

“Did you mean to do that?”

“Of course!”

“Then you’re getting better,” she laughed, and threw the arrow back down to them.

Will caught it.

“Come practice with us!”

“You know I can’t!”

“Come on boys,” a knight said. “Stop bothering Lady Brienne and get back to work.”

The boys obliged, following the knight back to their targets. Brienne watched them go with wistfulness in her heart. She looked down at the fan in her hands, and snapped it shut. Holding it at an angle, she pointed at her reflection in the mirror--squaring her shoulders and dropping low into a fighter’s stance. Her face was hard, her eyes unblinking. The eyes of her opponent twitched, and she lunged forward.

And then she heard a rip. A few garnets fell and scattered to the floor. The side of her bodice had split open.

_Oh no._

She picked up the garnets and held the split in her side, racing out of her room and down the corridor until she reached Septa Roelle’s chamber door.

“I need help,” Brienne pleaded, knocking fervently. “My dress--it was an accident, and it ripped--”

The door opened, and the squarely scarved head peered out. She touched the wound in the fabric, red fibers exposing the pale corset beneath.

“However did you do this? Nevermind--come in, quickly.”

Brienne entered the small and austere room. Her gaze fell on a golden dress laid out on Septa Roelle’s bed. The delicately embroidered bodice glowed like a candleflame, while the flowing skirts had a soft, moon-like iridescence. Such a beautiful dress Brienne had never seen. Yet it was not her size.

“Who is it for?” she asked.

“Not your concern,” Septa Roelle said shortly. She gently folded the dress and tucked it into the chest at the end of her bed. Then she took out her box of needles and sewing things, her eyes fixed on the split in Brienne’s dress.

Her hands worked quickly. It was amazing how fast Septa Roelle could mend a tear that would take an ordinary seamstress hours and hours to repair. Brienne’s mind wandered to the golden dress again. Perhaps Septa Roelle was preparing to enter the service of another lord’s daughter, and was already sewing things for her.

“Where will you go after?” Brienne asked.

“After what?”

“After...I leave Evenfall with Ser Ronnet. What will you do?”

“I don’t know. I’ll have to speak with your father about it.” She touched the spiral of Brienne’s hair. “Your hair is dry as sand. And so are your lips. Have you been sitting in the sun again?”

“Just by the window,” Brienne admitted.

Septa Roelle sighed. “I’ll fetch some oil. Wait here, and be still.”

She left the room. Brienne stood straight and still, so as not to further disrupt her dress or hair.

An arrow sailed through the window.

“Turnip!” she laughed.

But this time the arrow found a home in a crevice between stones, and stuck there. Speared on the shaft was a small piece of parchment. Brienne read it.

_Good luck Brienne!_

She rushed to the casement and looked down. Turnip and Will were both there, holding bows and waving up at her.

“Thank you,” she mouthed to them and smiled.

She went back to the wall to free the arrow. It was lodged well in the chink of stone, even with its blunted point. With a strong tug, she wrenched it free. Then the stone came with it, falling to the floor with a thud.

A book lay in the space it revealed. Curiosity sparked within her, and she gently pulled it out.

The brown leather binding felt soft as butter. Small gold lettering was etched at the top--words in High Valyrian. She knew a bit, and could just make out the title--something about songs and power…or was it spells and love? Valyrian was a complex language; one word could have many different meanings depending on context.

She opened the book to a marked page. Fine black ink glimmered gold in the sunlight, so bright that Brienne had to squint to tell it from page. Her eyes adjusted, and she saw that the luminous, flowing script formed verses, each paired with a line of musical notation. A golden songbird hovered in flight in the margins--so lifelike, the bird wavered slightly in the sunlight, as though struggling to fly free from the pages. It even seemed to look at Brienne, to open its mouth and sing...

A hand slammed the book shut. Septa Roelle glared at her fiercely.

“I’m sorry--”

“How did you find it?”

“An arrow flew through the window and stuck in the wall, and then the stone moved--and I was only curious about it...”

The septa’s yellow eyes bored into her, searching for truth. Finally, her expression softened. She picked up the book and examined it as if it were a newborn babe, soft and fragile.

“You must never touch it again.”

“But the songs--surely we’ll sing them one day?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“They’re for another to sing. A lady.”

_A lady._

So Septa Roelle did have a new employer lined up after Evenfall. A lady beautiful enough for the golden dress, and the enchanting songbook.

Brienne was no such lady. She caught sight of herself in the mirror. The girl staring back at her was uncomfortable, scared, and miserable. And tall. _Too tall._

_You’ll find truth in your looking glass._

“Come, we should start for the courtyard. He’ll be here soon.”

She touched her arm. Brienne shook her away.

“Oh for gods’ sake, what is it now?”

Hot tears streamed down her face. The more she tried to stop, the more the tears continued and the hotter her face felt.

“I can’t,” she gasped. “I can’t. I’ll disappoint everyone.”

“Brienne--”

“I _can’t._ ”

She didn’t look Roelle in the eye, but tensed herself, preparing to be slapped or hissed at. Instead, the septa lifted a hand to wipe away her tears. It came to rest on her chin.

“Poor thing. Your chin is trembling again. You’re only nervous, that’s all.”

She reached up, stroking a strand of hair from her face.

“Have you been practicing the words I taught you?”

“Yes. All the time.”

“Good. Before you welcome him, think of happy days--how wonderful it will be to have a husband. Then smile, look into his eyes, and say the words with all the poise in the world. That’s all you need.”

“What if I can’t do it?”

“You must,” Septa Roelle insisted. “You need to give your father grandsons.”

“If sons are the issue, why doesn’t my father marry again?”

“Perhaps he will remarry, in time.”

“Then why hasn’t he?”

Septa Roelle smiled. A pitying smile.

“Dear girl. Because you’re still here.”

Brienne didn’t know what to make of that. She stood unspeaking, searching for words.

A knock sounded. The door opened. Maester Osmynd stood there in his brown robes. He smiled solemnly.

“He is here.”

-

Brienne’s tears had barely dried on her cheeks when she stood at the entrance to the keep. The courtyard glimmered bright and green in the hot afternoon, the new fountain gushing water. She suddenly remembered how thirsty she was.

Her lord father stood next to her. His lady was on his other side, fanning herself with the speed of a hummingbird, while Septa Roelle and Maester Osmynd lingered close behind.

“Are you ready?” 

He looked resplendent in his long robes of silver, gold, and blue, yet his brow was creased with concern.

“I feel a bit...dizzy,” she admitted.

“Only nerves. Gather yourself, Brienne. You wield a sword with such confidence. Words should come easy.”

She wanted to ask him questions. What if she didn’t like Ronnet or Griffin’s Roost--could she come back to Tarth? What if she had only daughters?

But then she heard the portcullis lift--the groan and crank of steel on stone. Her heart beat wildly in her chest. Septa Roelle touched her shoulder. “Close your mouth. Remember to smile. Soft eyes.”

The inner wall doors opened, and there he was. Sitting tall and proud on a chestnut mare, donned in mail and his red and white surcoat, with red griffins dancing on a field of white. He held a rose in his hand. Thick auburn hair tumbled in waves around his shoulders. He looked gallant as any of the knights from well-known tales--the sunlight hit the silver brooch on his surcoat and shone so brilliantly, she squinted as he came near. He dismounted his mare, and approached her. His brow was furrowed, casting a shadow over his chiseled features. He stopped and stared at her with cool judgement. Her dress felt ever tighter, and she breathed quicker. She felt her father’s eyes on her, and heard Septa Roelle’s words in her head.

_Think of happy days--how wonderful it will be to have a husband. You must give your father grandsons._

She tried to imagine being wed to him, sharing his bed in his castle at Griffin’s Roost. _Happy days._ But it was useless. Nothing came to mind, no happiness filled her. In her mind’s eye was only darkness.

She licked her lips. They were dry and chapped again. She opened her mouth to speak.

“Ser. Ser--Ser Ronn--”

The words weren’t right, and caught in her chest. Her gaze fluttered down. Gather yourself. She saw his boots on the path, heard his breath. He smelled of the outdoors. His leathers reminded her of fighting. _You wield a sword with such confidence. Words should come easy._

She tried to lift her gaze, but she could not. What truth lay there in the looking glass of his eyes? She was afraid to see it.

Water gushed from the fountain. Brienne glanced at the Maiden, saw that she still had a broken mouth. _My mouth is broken, too._ No lips to speak the words she needed to, or drink the water to slake her thirst. Her tongue felt heavy as stone, more dry than sand. Her voice was gone, as though she had swallowed it whole.

She cleared her throat.

“Ser Ronn-Ronnet RON,” she coughed and lurched.

“Bloody hell!”

It was a violent heave, as if her belly attempted to empty its contents onto the green. But nothing came out--just strained gasps and a thin string of spittle.

She felt dizzy, and began to fall. Someone caught her.

“Have some water, Brienne,” Ser Goodwin said. She was still coughing and heaving violently. The older knight took his water skin from his hip and offered it to her. She drank deeply.

“Are you all right?”

She nodded, and turned to face the younger knight.

“Ser Ronnet, I welcome you to my--

“No need. I’ve seen enough.”

He pushed the stem into her hand.

“Ser?”

“This rose is the only thing you will ever receive from me. I have no real interest in marrying you.”

He walked away from her, back to his horse. She stood dazed, frozen in place.

“Ser Ronnet?” her father said, coming up behind her. “Are you leaving so soon?”

“Word traveled far of your daughter’s other qualities, my lord, but I didn’t know she was a mute as well.”

“She only needed water--she is fine now.”

“Aye, fine as a sow in silk. And I shan’t have her. Good day.”

Lord Selwyn stood stunned as Brienne felt, watching Ronnet turn back to his horse. Only Ser Goodwin cut the silence; he went after the younger knight, grabbed a fistful of red coat and pulled him back.  

"You  _shit!_ " he growled.

His hand cracked hard against Ronnet’s strong jaw. It sent the younger knight stumbling backward. Before he could recover his stance, Ser Goodwin was on him with both hands. Ronnet may have been in his finest armor while Ser Goodwin only had thin summer leathers, but he was no match for the older knight.

“Ser Goodwin, stop!” her father roared, rushing to the scene.

Ronnet had a bloody nose to match the red griffins on his surcoat, the garnets on Brienne’s dress, the rose in her hand. She realized that she had been gripping the rose stem tightly, and opened her hand. Blood smeared across the lines of her palm.

“Red Ronnet, red for bloodshed--there you are!” Ser Goodwin shouted.

Brienne let the rose drop to the ground.

She walked, then picked up her skirts and ran out of the courtyard--down the adjoining corridors, to the sparring yard. There was only one place she wanted to be.

Thankfully, someone had left the armory door unlocked. She slipped into the cool darkness. It felt sweetly calming after the blistering heat, like diving into the sea. Yet it wasn’t dark enough. A high window still shone a beam of frail light on her--she combed past shelves of armor and racks of weapons, trying to escape it.

At the very back of the room, she found her favorite shield with the elm tree and falling star. It was made of thick oak, and large enough for a giant to wield. _Large enough to hide me._ She slid behind it, crouching in the blackness it offered. She could stay here forever.

Time passed. The light through the window slanted longer, weaker, then faded to nothing. Blood dried and caked in her palm. She heard the door slam open and closed. Her father came in, calling for her. “I know you’re here, Brienne,” he said. The torchlight moved along the wall as he begged that she come out to talk to him. He lingered, then sighed and the light diminished. The door closed shut.

She slept and dreamt--nightmares of dresses that choked her, and mirrors that shattered and cut her open when she gazed in them. In the last dream, she held a rose made of flesh that rotted in her hands. But then the stem turned into a sword--a beautiful sword that gleamed so dazzling bright, she cracked open her eyes.

The light of morning strained through the window. Her whole body ached from hunger.

The door groaned open. Heavy boots paced the floor, directly to the corner where she hid behind the shield. They stopped.

A dark figure in mail crouched beside her. He pressed a plate into her hands. It smelled of hot bread, honey and butter.

“How did you know where to find me?”

“It’s the only place I knew you would be,” Ser Goodwin said.

She accepted the food thankfully, but did not move from behind the shield.

“You can come out, now. He’s gone.”

“Don’t care,” she said, between mouthfuls of bread.

“Well. I suppose you could stay here if you wanted. It’s not a bad place to live, is it? We could all take turns delivering meals to you.”

She didn’t answer.

“The boys miss you at sparring practice.”

“Swords aren’t for ladies.”

Ser Goodwin scoffed.

“That’s Septa Roelle talking. To hell with her. What do you really want to do?”

The light was getting brighter, beaming on helms and swords and bows. She thought of her dream. The sword. How the world sharpened into focus when she held it.

“I want to fight.”

He smiled and extended his hand. She took it.

-

Selwyn

-

He stood at the balcony, overlooking the sparring yard. Ser Goodwin was conducting a training session with the squires, Brienne among them. To watch her fight filled his chest with pride, but also with the tightness of sorrow. She grew stronger every day--yet she fought with an anger and ferocity she never had before.

It had only been days since the incident with Ronnet, yet the whole island seemed to know what had happened. Her inability to speak, the rose he gave her, the refused betrothal--everything. Selwyn didn’t understand how gossip flew so quickly.

A few raindrops plopped from on high. He looked up. The clouds were black and heavy. Late afternoon storms had seized the skies these past few days, darkening the world as far as the eye could see. Selwyn couldn’t help but think it symbolic--it reminded him of the story Roelle told him last year. The story about a cursed king who lost everything, whose kingdom was at stake. The story that haunted him still.

“My lord?”

He heard the young woman’s voice somewhere in the distance.

“My lord?”

Selwyn blinked back into the moment. He turned to see her--the girl who had attended him at events these past few months. She had large green eyes and long, auburn hair.

“I asked you if you were well, my lord.”

“Of course, Flora--”

“My name is Carlys!”

Not even close that time. Yet he couldn’t couldn’t keep track of them. The people of Tarth sent him a new one every year. Surely they knew his indifference when the first went back to her family back still a maid, but the girls kept showing up.

“You can go home if you want,” Selwyn said. “There’s no reason for you to be here.”

“But I was chosen, my lord. There must always be a lady at Evenfall. To keep out the curses.”

Selwyn sighed. He almost used to believe it himself--it just sounded ridiculous now. Only islanders could be so bloody superstitious. Yet it could be worse. Had his ancestors sailed on a different wind, he might be a lord somewhere in the Iron Islands--submissive to their drowned god religion. Yes, that would be worse indeed.

“To keep out the curses,” he repeated. “Of course.”

The rain was pouring down, now. Still the squires fought--Ser Goodwin did not relent for any type of weather. Thunder galloped closer, violent bolts of lightning cracking the sky. Then, sudden as it came, the storm rumbled quietly into the distance. The rain stopped. Selwyn excused himself from the young woman’s company and left the balcony, making his way for the West Tower. The one redeeming quality about summer storms at Evenfall was how they always abated just before sundown, washing the sky with a host of colors.

With luck, the clouds might even clear enough that Selwyn could spend some time in his observatory tonight; he had taken to astronomy of late. Nothing in the earthly world was certain, yet there was comfort to be found in the bright consistencies of the heavens--the constancy of the moon, the constellations that moved across the sky and kept their alignment night after night. Some of his books said particularly bright stars might not be stars at all, but entire worlds unto themselves. _How wondrous would that be._

He opened the door to the tower’s stairwell. A sad, sweet tune echoed down the marble spiral. Singing. He froze at the sound. Who would come to this lonely, abandoned tower to sing? Perhaps this time it could be...

Selwyn ascended more quickly, the stone steps narrowing and tightening their spiral. The tune wavered in sobs and gasps--someone was weeping, not singing. He opened the door to the tower roof.

To his surprise, it was Roelle.

She turned from the parapets to face him, and forced a smile. The front of her grey robes were bathed golden in the setting sun. Her cheeks were streaked with tears.

“I’m sorry my lord. I did not know you would be here.”

He frowned.

“Why do you weep?”

“The beauty of the sunset.”

He stepped toward the parapets and looked out over the view.

The sky was bathed in warm, soft hues--like a peach ripe for eating. Far below, waves washed the cliffs. Wind whistled over the towertops. All else was quiet.

“I will miss your hall, my lord.”

Confusion swept over him.

“Surely you don’t mean to say--”

“I’ve no place here any longer,” she continued. “It was my one duty to raise Brienne into a lady, and I failed.”

“You did not fail.”

“I did, in every sense.”

“What happened with Ronnet was not your fault.”

“Yet it happened under my watch. I have lost her trust. She has since refused all lessons with me. With your permission, my lord, I would like to leave Evenfall and renounce my vows.”

“But where would you go?”

“I don’t know. Anywhere. I could carve out a living as a seamstress, perhaps.”

Selwyn felt a pang of deep empathy for her. Her talents far exceeded a livelihood of mending dresses. She had spent most of her life in castles, was well-read and well-spoken.

“I’m sure Brienne will change her mind, and want to take up sewing and music again.”

Roelle shook her head. Another tear ran down her cheek, and she wiped it away.

“Ser Goodwin is her chosen teacher now, my lord,” she said, and sighed. “At least you still have your ladies to show Brienne a feminine example.”

“Those aren’t my ladies, and we all know it. They’re only here to satisfy superstition of my thick-headed people.”

“They’re here for more than that.”

He looked at her curiously.

“What do you mean?”

“My apologies, my lord--it’s not my place.”

“It is,” he pressed.

She bit her lip, then stepped closer to speak more lowly.

“Your people have a hunger for gossip, my lord. They send the young women so that they can know what goes on within the walls of Evenfall.”

 _No. Impossible._ Yet he felt indignation rise within him.

“How do you know this?”

“I’ve overheard things. At the market. The fishwives love nothing better than talking about what Carlys tells them. How do you think the story of Ronnet and the rose flew about the isle so quickly? And before that, the story of what the boys called her--Brienne the Beauty?”

He let the truth sink in like an anchor. It hit him hard, and he felt shame and anger in equal measures. _Of course._

Roelle took another step closer.

“I only worry, my lord, that perhaps your people will discover something that they’re not meant to know. They suspect that Evenfall Hall has many secrets indeed.”

 _Ser Duncan the Tall._ His grandfather. The largest secret there was. Selwyn realized he was clenching his fist. He pounded it on the stone wall.

“I’m sorry, my lord.”

“Don't be. The sooner this obvious farce ends, the better. Yet I only wonder how Ser Goodwin and Maester Osmynd didn’t see it.”

“Maester Osmynd grows old. He is nearly 80. And Ser Goodwin--pardon me, my lord--but he’s not as shrewd as he once was. And he has an alcohol problem--he spends far too much time at the inn. The drink flares his temper.”

The temper he knew about. The connection with alcohol consumption he hadn’t considered. Yet it made sense.

“Ser Goodwin and Ronnet were late to Evenfall because they stopped at the inn...”

“He can’t go two hours without a drink,” she finished. “And then you saw how he beat Ser Ronnet bloody.”

Though Selwyn himself had secretly wanted to join in on the beating, his better judgment forbade him from it. Of late, Ser Goodwin seemed to have lost much of his own good judgment and sense of decorum.

“But it’s no place of mine to say such things,” she said. “I’ll now take my leave of you, my lord.”

She moved toward the door, grey robes sweeping over the stone. He caught her by the wrist.

“No,” he said. “You may not take your leave just yet.”

Roelle gave him a curious look. He released his grip.

“You have my permission to renounce your vows. But under one condition.”

“What is that, my lord?”

“You must remain here, at Evenfall.”

“But if not as your daughter’s septa--”

“As a lady. I will give you a position in my court. You’ll be my advisor.”

Roelle looked down, hands folded over her skirts.

“My lord.”

“You may well be right about Ser Goodwin and Maester Osmynd,” Selwyn continued. “I cannot rely entirely on their counsel any longer--I need yours as well. Besides, Brienne will need a proper lady to look up to.”

“A proper lady,” she whispered with soft incredulity.

“Are you willing?” he asked.

She smiled, and gazed up at him. Her eyes glowed golden as the sun.

“I would be honored, my lord.”

A flare of light dawned on her face. Selwyn turned his gaze back to the horizon. The heavens and ocean seemed to have traded places; the sun sank low into the gilded sea, while cloud ships of honeyed rose sailed across a lilac sky.

“Strange that those are the same clouds from the storm,” Roelle said. “They were dark and heavy as lead. Now they’re blushing soft as the Maiden.”

“Like a painting,” he said.

She smiled.

“Yet we are the painted ones. The gods made our world as a mirror of theirs.”

“Sometimes I wonder if the gods are watching anymore.”

“Of course they are. Do you remember the story I told you last year, my lord?”

“Yes.”

“Do you ever wonder what was inside the lead box?”

He did, but dared not admit it. Part of him longed to know, yet a greater part of him feared it.

The wind picked up. A wisp of soft brown hair loosed from Roelle’s headscarf--hair that was a deep umber, rich like soil. _And secrets._

She opened her mouth.

“My lord!” Maester Osmynd cried. “Thank the gods you’re here, I have looked everywhere for you.”

The maester stopped when he saw Roelle, and glanced back to his lord. It only occurred to Selwyn at that moment how close they were standing. He stepped sharply away from her.

“What is it, Maester Osmynd?”

“We’ve had a raven from King’s Landing, my lord.”

He held out the rolled parchment. Selwyn took it, and broke the wax seal.

_Lord Selwyn Tarth,_

_I write to inform you of my younger brother Renly's assumption as Lord of Storm’s End and Lord Paramount of the Stormlands. House Tarth shall be the first to receive him in the progress of his coming of age tour._

_Moreover, I desire that Renly spend time with your daughter Brienne. I know that you have had ill luck with betrothals; so has it been with Renly. Yet he must have a bride, and I have reason to think he will take a liking to Brienne. Mayhap we can make the match we talked of many years ago._

_KING ROBERT_

 He read the last paragraph several times in silence.

"What news, my lord? My lord?"

Selwyn gave the letter to Roelle and Maester Osmynd. He moved away, leaning over the parapets. The light was dying in the west.

"But this is wonderful news, my lord!"

He said nothing.

There was something that he didn't like about Robert's phrasing. _I have reason to think he will take a liking to Brienne._ What did that mean?

"Shall I summon Brienne, my lord?”

_Mayhap we can make the match we talked of many years ago._

Yet Renly was a grown man now, lord of his house--he would make his own decisions.

“My lord?”

Selwyn had already vowed that there would not be a third failed betrothal, king’s brother or no. There especially would not be another Ronnet Connington.  Why should she know of another prospect of marriage, only to be crushed again?

"No," he said. "Don’t tell her. She musn’t know."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was actually a fun one to write, despite how much I feared and loathed the thought of this chapter in the beginning. And yes, twists...
> 
> Next chapter is the one I've been waiting to write since I first started this story, so I'll be very excited to get to work on that. 
> 
> THANK YOU SO MUCH for your patience in between these chapters! This fic is truly a labor of love for me, and your readership and comments make it all the more fun.


	14. The Masquerade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lord Renly comes to Tarth on his coming-of-age tour, and Brienne reluctantly attends a masquerade ball in his honor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor canon divergence: Loras is much closer in age to Renly here, not five years younger like he is in the books. In this story, I would say that he's 15. Because otherwise it would be weird.

-

Renly

-

It was a beautiful day for sailing. Renly Baratheon stood wide-legged on deck, the sun warming him, the ocean curling against the ship’s hull in ribbons of white and blue. Salt spray misted his cheeks. Wavelets glittered all around like spilled silver, and straight ahead over the prow lay the Isle of Tarth--a faint, purple line on the horizon.

“Are you excited for the ball tonight?”

Renly turned, and smiled. His page Loras Tyrell stood gilded by sunlight, soft brown ringlets framing his fine face.

“Beyond excited--you know how I love dancing.”

“What is your costume, then?”

“A knight.”

Loras beamed widely.

“Your new armor...”

Upon his last visit to King’s Landing, Renly had sought out a master-armorer and commissioned a full suit and helm. The smith was one of the only workers in the world who could tint metal without painting it, and the result was a thing of beauty; a suit stained deep green, so that it shone like emeralds and the Summer Sea.

“I’ve almost longed for war just so I can wear it,” Renly laughed. “Who knew its grand debut would be a ballroom. And what of your costume?”

The page glanced away, trying to hide an impish grin.

“It shall be a surprise.”

“That’s not fair,” Renly teased. “I told you mine. How will I even know who my own page is in a ballroom full of masked creatures?”

“I suppose you’ll have to discover for yourself,” Loras replied. He crossed his arms, and leaned his athletic form against the foremast. A salt breeze ruffled his hair, leaving him even more handsome in a windswept fashion.

Renly stepped toward him.

“I suppose I must.”

He remembered when Loras first came to be fostered at Storm’s End. How wonderful it was to have a playmate roughly his age--he had fond memories of racing through the halls together, playing rats and cats and monsters and maidens. Yet they were young boys no longer. Now they stood eye to eye, and lip to lip.

“Lord Renly!” a gruff voice called.

A knight with a bald head and spade-shaped red beard clambered up on deck. He eyed Loras warily.

“Get below, Loras,” Ser Cortnay Penrose said. “There’s work for you.”

The page obliged. Renly ruefully watched him go.

“You’re overly harsh with him, Ser Cortnay.”

“Only because he’s overly friendly with you, my lord. He’s a hostage from Highgarden. He should know his place.”

Renly sighed with impatience.

“That was all so long ago--the rebellion, the war. How long must the boy pay penance for the decisions of his family?”

“He pays penance until he comes of age. Then the debt is paid, and he will go back to Highgarden.”

“Unless he wishes to stay in my service.”

“That will depend on the wishes of his family.”

“He’ll be of age soon. He can do what he likes.”

Ser Cortnay did not answer. Gulls cried overhead. Land drew nearer.

“It is said that Lord Selwyn’s daughter is extremely tall, broad-shouldered,” the knight offered. “She likes to fight.”

Renly nodded, but said nothing.

“Some say she’s more man than lady.”

“I’m certain she is every inch a lady.”

“That’s the point,” Ser Cortnay said, dryly. “You know what King Robert said.”

_Find a wife, Renly. Else I’ll make Stannis Lord of Storm’s End._

An empty threat, but a threat all the same. King Robert knew his nature. He had tried to beat it out of him by locking him into an early marriage with some great house, yet Renly had refused every such betrothal--aside from not wanting the women, he was wary of their families. He had seen what the Lannisters did to his older, royal brother--Cersei had driven him to life’s excesses, and King’s Landing was ever under the shadow of Tywin. Still, Robert pressured him. _A good marriage is the union of two powerful families who have much to gain from joining hands._ Perhaps. But Renly preferred to choose a marriage which suited his own needs. A marriage where his hand rested firmly on top.

“I have time.”

“Of course you do,” Ser Cortnay replied. “But just bear in mind, my lord--coming of age does not mean you may do all as you like.”

The red-bearded knight stood by a moment longer. When it was clear that his lord wished to talk no further, he made some noises about getting his own costume ready for the ball, then clambered away.

Renly gazed forward, stern and resolute. The isle loomed larger now--a purple mound reclining on the water like a sleeping beast. He drew in a deep breath.

_Tarth._

Not one of the great houses. But it was a respectable house, rich enough for its marble and a gateway to eastern trade. Admittedly, Renly did have a mild curiosity for the Evenstar’s daughter. Word had traveled far of her unusual height and ungainly nature, the unladylike interest in swordfighting. Her discordance with the conventions and expectations of noble society had already won his empathy, if not his romantic intrigue. He reflected that at least his own irregularities were hidden well and deep.

Renly left the sunshine and fresh air to go below deck, making his way into the master’s cabin. There lay his traveling trunk. He opened it. A green enamel breastplate shone up from its depths. Tucked beside it were boots polished to a high sheen, green greaves, a velvet cape, and a helm with silver stag antlers. He smiled.

How he loved masquerades.

-

Ser Goodwin

-

 

Gods, how he hated masquerades.

Every which way Ser Goodwin turned, he bumped into dragons, tigers, peacocks, and mermaids. The hall was bedecked with hanging tapestries, outrageously large bouquets of exotic flowers. Wide, slow candles burned in all corners, releasing a stifling musk of sandalwood and myrrh. Yet it was the air of pretense which stifled him most in this garish exhibition of noble society.

On the surface, the ball was a celebration to mark Lord Renly’s coming of age, his assumption as Lord Paramount of the Stormlands. Yet for Evenfall, it was an open auction for the heiress of Tarth. The Sapphire Isle should have been dowry enough, but not with the conditions the Evenstar had set; his daughter’s first-born son had to take the Tarth name. Brienne may as well have had no lands at all under such negotiations, so Lord Selwyn amended his offer--any house whose son married his daughter would forever receive fifty percent of marble trade profits. It was a steep price to pay, but losing the Tarth name was an even steeper price.

And so the lords and lordlings came running. They came from all corners of the Stormlands--Estermont, Toyne, Haystack Hall, Musgood and Errol. Not wishing to waste opportunity, many had brought with them sisters, cousins, widowed aunts; any highborn woman of childbearing age who might serve a suitable prize for another. In short, the ball was merely a night market horse trade, the mares and traders all silked and feathered.

Ser Goodwin nursed his wine and traced the outskirts of the room, clinging to the shadows. Laughter bubbled and cups clinked, and musicians played an airy tune. This was the social hour, intended for milling about and sipping libation enough to free inhibition and lighten the feet. He tried to decipher faces, but it was useless--the extravagant masks and costumes transformed their owners well. The only person he recognized at all was Lord Selwyn, his great height being the dead giveaway. He was dressed as a wizard, wearing long robes of deep blue velvet, a pointed hat, and a mask with a star and moon on either side. Simple and dignified, and a nod to his sigil.

Ser Goodwin should have been able to recognize someone else by height, certainly--and so he scanned the room once more.

Brienne was not yet present.

There had been immense difficulty in persuading her to even consider attending--the argument between the Evenstar and his daughter had lasted weeks on end.

_“I will not attend!”_

_“You do not have a choice in the matter. I have invited half the Stormlands.”_

_“They will know about the rose. And they will laugh at me.”_

Red Ronnet and his rose. _What an idiot._ Brienne certainly dodged a fire arrow with that one. Even so, he had burned her deeply.

Servants marched out of the kitchen with platters of food, setting them on small, high tables positioned around the room. The feast was a standing affair, the food plenty yet miniature--finger meats, small pies, crab cakes with lobster gravy, and marbled quail eggs.

_But no bacon figs._

Bacon-wrapped figs were Ser Goodwin’s favorite, and one of two reasons he lingered in the hall--the other reason being to stand watch for Brienne, and safeguard her comfort.

A hand slapped him heartily on the back. Ser Goodwin jumped, then turned to see a knight in the most curious armor--a sword at hip, but dried fishskin for mail and a helm augmented with luminescent scales.

“What the devil--”

“Don’t tell me I scared you, Ser Goodwin!”

He lowered his helm. Ser Goodwin could just see the red, spade-shaped beard.

“Ser Cortnay!”

“Shhh, don’t give me away. But can you guess my costume?”

Ser Goodwin stared up and down the length of the Storm’s End knight. He sniffed. The fishskin mail had a slight stench.

“You are a fish...in armor?”

“Close,” he said, and touched his hilt. “A swordfish.”

Ser Goodwin groaned.

“But where is your costume?”

“I’m wearing it.”

“No you’re not.”

“I am.”

“Then what are you?”

“A humorless knight.”

Ser Cortnay scoffed.

“That’s what you always are. I wonder that you have graced us with your presence.”

“So do I.”

“But speaking of grace and presence--who is _she?”_

He followed Ser Cortnay’s admiring gaze to where it lighted on a woman, dressed all in gold. Her hair was dark, exquisitely braided and coiled around her head like a delicate basket. She wore a monarch butterfly mask and fluttered near Lord Selwyn, playing the gracious hostess with her deep curtsies and bell-like laughter.

“That,” Ser Goodwin said. “That is Lady Roelle.”

The name still felt strange and foreign on his tongue. When Lord Selwyn informed them of the change, Ser Goodwin had called it impossible. Swearing oneself to the faith was a lifelong vow, as much as swearing oneself to maester studies or the Night's Watch. He thought he knew this for certain. Yet Tarth’s septon had proved him wrong.

_There is a reverse ceremony, should the gods favor such a deed...and clearly, the gods have shown that it is auspicious for Roelle to remove herself from the faith._

Lately, it seemed she could bend anyone to her will. He did not know how. Yet here she was, a moth turned butterfly--flaunting her feminine form in silks and satin.

“She is simply stunning,” Ser Cortnay said.

“One might say that.”

“Is she Lord Selwyn’s...?”

“Gods no.”

_Though she would have everyone believe it._

“Then who is she?”

_Who knows._

“She serves in a sort of staff position. This whole masquerade was her idea.”

_Befitting the master of disguises and subterfuge._

“Does she have a husband?”

“No.”

“Well,” Ser Cortnay said, puffing out his chest a bit. “A woman without a husband surely wants for one. Would you be so kind as to introduce us?”

Another train of servants passed in front of the knights, bearing platters and tiered finger foods. One plate was piled high with bacon-wrapped figs. The scent wafted into Ser Goodwin’s nose.

“Unfortunately, I have other engagements,” he answered, watching the servants disappear into a side room. “If you’ll excuse me, I must needs refill my cup.”

He thrust through the crowd, escaping the reach of light--then waited until the servants exited the room, and were well away.

He quietly pushed the door open. The standby room was a reprieve of silence, scarcely lit and filled with delicious aromas--sweet and savory, rich and spicy. There was also a store of fine liquor and wine, but Ser Goodwin had not so much interest for that. He stepped toward the table where the bacon figs lay waiting, and licked his lips. Surely, no one would notice just one missing. He reached.

The door burst open. Quick as a shadow, Ser Goodwin dropped below the table, under the white skirts. He heard boyish laughter, saw their boots framed by the trim of tablecloth.

“My winged stallion! Now have I caught you!”

The youths fell to the floor, one on top of the other. Ser Goodwin retreated further into the shadows, but could still see the entanglement of legs--armor greaves on white breeches. They were older than youths. Young men.

“What would you like as a reward, my lord? Ohh!”

The one lord’s greaves caught the light--they were studded in silver. Fine and expensive work.

“I don’t know. Perhaps I would like to ride you.”

Ser Goodwin’s eyes widened. His face flushed, even in the darkness.

“But not now. Come, we must go back to the party.”

“No. Let us stay here.”

“You know I can’t. The dancing’s about to begin, and I must court the Evenstar’s daughter.”

White breeches scoffed.

“Brienne the Beauty?” he said, dripping with disdain. “Are you serious?”

“Think of it this way, sweetling. Lord Selwyn is desperate to marry off his daughter. And a marriage with a small and desperate house gives me more leave to pursue...other desires.”

Ser Goodwin heard the wet noise of kissing, fervent breathing. He shot straight up--banging his head before clearing the table’s edge.

The young men gasped.

“Who’s there?”

Ser Goodwin did not answer, but slipped along the walls until he found the door, and left the room. Whoever they were, he would rather not know. In any case, neither had a chance amongst the dozens of others vying for Brienne’s hand. And _dammit_ , he had forgotten the bacon figs. No matter. He’d lost his appetite. _Time for bed._

He had nearly reached the stairwell to the east tower when a voice called out to him.

A costumed creature came into the light--tall, gowned in white silk and feathers, and crowned with an extravagant swan headpiece. Her arms were long and lean with muscle, her large hands folded tightly together. Behind her feathered mask gleamed a pair of sapphire eyes.

“Brienne!” he said. “Gods, what are you doing, hiding in the shadows--you should be in the light of the ballroom. Your father holds the music and dancing for you.”

How different she looked in formal dress as opposed to armor and leathers, face smudged with dirt. Her eyes shone not so confident now as they did when she held a sword--instead they flickered, fearful. She bit her lip.

“I don’t want to go.”

He did not wish it for her, either. Yet he knew she must.

“But of course you do! Masquerade balls are so much fun!”

“Then why are you leaving, if it’s so much fun?”

He paused, trying to think of an answer.

“You’re not even in costume,” she said.

“Well--I was just on my way to get my costume.”

“I don’t believe you.”

He sighed.

“As well you shouldn’t. Why don’t I escort you in--we’ll weather it together.”

He held out his arm. She considered a long moment, then took it.

They entered the hall. All went quiet. Every head turned to stare.

In the crook of his arm, he felt her hand tense and tug. He grasped it with his other hand.

“Give them a chance,” he whispered.

The crowd parted, and the Evenstar stepped through.

“Ah! Here is my daughter, finally,” he said. “Shall we begin the dances?”

He clapped. The musicians struck up a merry dancing tune.

But no one danced.

The attendees looked to Brienne, to Ser Goodwin, to the Evenstar, to each other, and back to Brienne--a circle of stares that pivoted on her. They whispered.

_“She’s so tall.”_

_“Who will dance with her first?”_

Brienne hunched and cowered like a wounded beast.

A few seconds longer, and it would be a disaster. Ser Goodwin was in the midst of deciding whether to escort her back to her chamber, or to drag her onto the dance floor himself--when a voice cut through the silence.

“Lady Brienne. It is so good to look upon you at last.”

A young man in deep green armor approached, proud as the wind. His eyes were of the same color, and his hair was long and coal-black. Baratheon black.

_“It’s Lord Renly!”_

_“Look how handsome he is!”_

_“Have you ever seen such beautiful armor?”_

Lord Renly knelt before the Evenstar’s daughter, kissed her hand.

“May I have this dance?”

Her mouth dropped open in surprise. She nodded. He swept her onto the dance floor.

Thank the gods.

Ser Goodwin reveled in relief for some time as watched them glide and whirl across the floor. Lord Renly leaned to whisper something in Brienne’s ear, and she laughed--a free and beautiful laugh. And for the first time that evening, Ser Goodwin smiled.

But something nagged him. There was something immediately familiar about the young Lord Paramount. Then his eyes lighted on Renly’s greaves, and he saw--they were deep green as the Summer Sea, and studded in silver.

His stomach tightened.

_Was it?_

It couldn’t be. Not Lord Renly. Not a Baratheon.

Desperately his gaze swept over the ballroom, searching for others who shared the same armor. But there were none. He took another cup of wine and clutched it hard, his eyes trained on the black-haired lord.

_A marriage with a desperate house gives me more leave to pursue...other desires._

He felt sick.

“It’s going well already, is it not?”

Lord Selwyn stood over him, a cup in hand and looking quite pleased.

“Not two hours ago, I nearly had to drag her out of her chamber,” he continued. “Now she’s the happiest I’ve ever seen her.”

She was laughing and spinning, Lord Renly smiling at her.

“Our Lord Paramount has a...certain charisma,” Ser Goodwin said unsteadily.

“A good lord, and a genuine lad. Who could have imagined such a match might be made so easily?”

The knight coughed on his wine.

“A _match?”_

“He will ask for her hand tonight. I’ve confirmed as much on the ride from port.”

“You’ve given your blessing to the betrothal?”

“In as many words.”

“But what of the other lords?”

“After the disaster last year with Ronnet, I wanted to ensure that Brienne was the one to choose. And she has chosen him, has she not? Look at her. Look at her with him.”

“My lord--”

“I know, I know the complication that gives you pause.”

“You do?”

“It is always a question of passing on the Tarth name,” the Evenstar continued. “I doubt the Baratheons would have any son of theirs take on another name entirely.”

“Lord Selwyn, I--”

“Yet something can be negotiated. Brienne and Renly’s second son could take the name Taratheon, or Tartheon. What do you think?”

“No, my lord--”

“Well, ‘Barth’ would be another option, but it sounds less dignified...”

“It’s not that my lord,” Ser Goodwin urged. “I must tell you something about Lord Renly. How to say this--he is fraternally-inclined.”

Lord Selwyn looked at him blankly. He blinked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“He’s a man who prefers two swords to one.”

“I...don’t understand you,” he laughed.

“Gods, do I need to spell it out!” Ser Goodwin sputtered. “He likes men. He is gay as the first summer’s day.”

Lord Selwyn’s smile disappeared, like the sun going behind the clouds. His grey brows drew together.

 _“What?”_ he rasped.

“Earlier this evening, I inadvertently caught him enjoying a--private moment with his page. The one in the white horse costume. I knew him by his silver-studded greaves. My lord, I’m certain it was him--”

“Where was this again?”

“The standby room.”

“Were you trying to get to the alcohol?”

“No! In truth, it was the bacon figs--”

“How much wine have you had?”

“Two cups, no more than most.”

“You imagined it.”

“I know I did not, my lord, but listen--”

“This is the first bit of luck my house has had in an age,” Lord Selwyn hissed. “I bid you not ruin it with groundless slander and suspicion.”

“But there is more--”

Yet Ser Goodwin held his mouth agape, and helplessly watched as the Evenstar left his company.

_Groundless slander and suspicion._

Was his word not enough?

He drained the rest of his cup, glanced about the hall. Light dimmed. Shapes and shadows grew longer. He thought to leave, to let things unfold by themselves. Then he saw Brienne, clapping and spinning in the arms of a different lord--yet her eyes still searched for Renly.

_And she has chosen him, has she not?_

Ser Goodwin caught a glimpse of gold. Roelle floated nearby.

If anyone could help him in this matter, it was her.  He made his approach.

“Good evening, Lady Roelle,” he said.

She turned her head--serene, though slightly alarmed.

“Good evening, Ser Goodwin,” she replied.

“Will you dance?”

She looked at him curiously, then nodded.

He took her hand, her waist. They danced a few turns in silence.

“You surprise me, Ser Goodwin--you’re quite good a dancer.”

“I shall take that to heart. I know you don’t give praise lightly.”

“I’m an honest woman, I give praise where praise is due.”

He bristled, but held his tongue.

“Shall we end this feud of ours?” he suggested.

She laughed.

“What feud? I have always been civil to you.”

“Then let us be more than civil. Let us be friends.”

“What are the terms of this friendship, good Ser?”

“You suspect me of ulterior motives?”

“Always.”

“It’s about our Lord Paramount. He’s--”

She pressed a cool finger to his lips.

“Stop.”

She knew.

“We must tell Lord Selwyn,” he urged.

“We must not.”

“Would you have Brienne married to a man who uses her as his mask, so he can indulge in other desires?” Ser Goodwin said, trying to keep his voice low even in his anger. “For that is his plan!”

She shrugged.

“There is no perfect marriage. Besides, look how happy she is. Look how she looks at him.”

He did not need to.

“Since when are you concerned with anyone’s happiness but your own?”

She shot him a wounded look.

“I thought we were friends, Ser Goodwin.”

“Lord Selwyn deserves to know.”

The song ended. She held his gaze.

“I wonder why you don’t tell him yourself? Or did you, and he didn’t believe you?”

He gritted his teeth. She sighed, and clicked her tongue.

“Poor Ser Goodwin. It seems the Evenstar has become wary of your better judgment.”

Then she smiled, rendered a gracious curtsy, and left his company.

Ser Goodwin bit his lip--so hard, he drew blood. He shoved his way back through the crowd to retrieve his wine cup. It was gone. He found a servant holding a platter of wine cups, and asked for one.

“I’m sorry, Ser, I cannot.”

“What do you mean, you cannot?”

“It is Lord Selwyn’s bidding that you not have any more wine.”

Ser Goodwin frowned. He sputtered a laugh of disbelief.

“I assure you, I have no alcohol problem.”

“I am sorry, Ser. I am only following his lordship’s will.”

The servant hurried on while Ser Goodwin stood, stunned to silence.

He watched Roelle, laughing next to Lord Selwyn. _No. They would never be._ But somehow, in some strange way--they already were. The Evenstar looked on her fondly, with a sort of respect Ser Goodwin had not earned in many years.

“Well? Did you put in a good word for me?”

Ser Cortnay Penrose had appeared next to him.

“I saw you dancing with her.”

“Yes,” Ser Goodwin said, finally. He cleared his throat. “Indeed I did. She loves your beard--has a fondness for its shape and redness. Plays hard to get, though, so don’t misunderstand her. Here, I’ll hold your drink.”

He urged on the fish-mailed knight, nudging him in her direction. Penrose took to the floor, seized Roelle’s hand and pulled her into him with a dandy flourish. She tried to resist--but to no avail. The music had already started, and the swordfish caught the butterfly. She wrinkled her prim nose, glaring at Ser Goodwin over her partner’s shoulder.

Ser Goodwin raised his cup to her, and drank. Then he grabbed a handful of bacon figs, and went to bed.

-

Brienne

-

Brienne never knew her belly could ache from laughter, that her cheeks could hurt from smiling—not until tonight. There was surely some magic in the evening; it was in the way her feet floated across the floor, delicate as a cloud. It was in the wine, so sweet when it normally tasted so bitter.

And it was in the way that every man seemed to desire her hand.

She had imagined the ballroom would be full of Ronnet Conningtons, standing stiff and eager to sneer at her height, her ungainliness. Nothing could be further from the truth; lord after lord begged a dance from her, leaned in to whisper in her ear, told her of charms in their own lands. Then the song would end, they would bow, and her hand was quickly claimed by another.

Yet her gaze would drift with each clap and twirl, each step and pivot—until her eyes rested on the knight in green armor. There he was, dancing with a peacock of Toyne. And then there he was, laughing and conversing with a fox-coated lord from Haystack Hall. It was he who had danced with her first. He who had approached her, chosen her before anyone else.

When the Lord Paramount bowed to her and took her in his arms with such ease, something inside her lifted. He complimented her costume, remarked how well it became her. She blushed and stammered, confused--still he met her awkwardness with warmth and courtesy. He found a way to make her laugh, then asked if she was enjoying the masquerade.

_“Yes, my lord.”_

_“No, no, none of that; call me Renly.”_

A warmth bloomed in her belly at the taste of his name.

_Renly._

It felt liquid, soothing on her tongue like honey. And to look upon him was even sweeter—the candlelight cast favor on his clean, smooth face, chiseling his fine features finer. How like a picture he was with his easy smile and lustrous black mane, his eyes that gleamed deep and bright as mineral pools. Even the way he moved across the floor was handsome; lithe, but sure as spruce.

In between her furtive glances about the room, the music heightened and more lords claimed her hand. There was one whose willow costume was quite humorous and kept tickling everyone with its hanging branches. Then she danced with a sea lord who seemed her father’s age, and then a small gargoyle lordling who could be no more than 10. Brienne laughed as the boy would lift his leading arm high as he could—it reached only to her chin, but she turned and curtsied all the same. She noticed Renly again. Then, from across the room, her father caught her eye; they shared a smile.

She felt a light touch on her arm.

A winged stallion stood before her, all in white—handsome, almost her height, with brown curls and hazel eyes.

“May I?”

She nodded.

He regarded her with cool distance as they danced to a tune Brienne had never heard--lofty and ornamental, with plentiful trills. She misstepped. He smirked.

“I am not familiar with this dance,” she said. “Is it new?”

“Not at all. It is a Highgarden tune.”

It was then that she noticed the rose brooch pinned to his collar; the white roses finely embroidered on his sleeve.

“You are a Tyrell--are you not?” she said. “Loras Tyrell, Renly’s page!”

“I am,” he said, with a slight sneer. “And you are Brienne. Brienne the Beauty.”

She flinched, misstepped again.

Her memory reeled back, two years prior. When the other squires mounted a boar’s head onto a suit of armor, and named it.

Brienne the Beauty.

The music ended. The winged stallion held her gaze as the musicians struck up another tune.

 _And now, lords and ladies, faces shall be covered_  
_But not with masks your own—find another!_

Loras gripped her hand tightly, and pulled her in.

“Perhaps you should find a pig’s mask,” he whispered. “Everyone here knows it would far suit you better.”

He released her, and walked away. She stood there, numb and speechless.

Colors flurried all around her. Nothing matched. A dragon now wore a tiger’s head, a fish had the body of a phoenix. Even her father wore a strange goblin mask, and looked more monster than wizard.

_Perhaps you should find a pig’s mask._

The candlelight dimmed. Shadows grew longer, darker. It was hot, stifling; Brienne felt like she was back in the courtyard a year ago, meeting Ser Ronnet and unable to summon words from her mouth. The room was full of nightmarish beasts, all laughing and turning. What seemed a delightful menagerie now was a cage of monsters--and she was in the middle. Their lips curled upward into mocking smiles beneath their masks. All stared at her.

Her breath quickened. A dry tightness filled her chest, tears pricking her eyes. She found her legs and whirled to rush for the doors, but her left foot caught on her gown and she stumbled, diving for the floor--

Someone caught her. She opened her wet eyes to see a blur of black hair.

“Shhh, calm down,” Renly said softly, his steeled arms around her. “Breathe. What’s the matter?”

“They’re laughing at me.”

“Who?”

“Everyone.”

“I assure you, they’re not.”

“Yes they are. They think me a joke.”

He held her tighter, looked around.

“Even if they do,” he whispered, “Then they’re nasty little shits, and nasty little shits aren’t worth crying over.”

That earned a small laugh from her. She sniffed.

“You just need some fresh air. Come. Let’s go outside.”

And so he took her by the hand and led her through the crowd of beasts, and through the double doors of the Great Hall.

-

They escaped into the courtyard, then out the castle walls. When Renly spotted the long staircase winding down to the beach, he laughed and grabbed Brienne’s hand again.

_“Far too beautiful a night not to walk along the shore, don’t you think?”_

She protested, but soon found herself gathering her skirts and running down the steps after him--that wonderful warmth blooming within her.

It was a beautiful night. The full moon shone bright, bathing the world in silver monochrome. Sand and sea and sky were all shades of milk to charcoal. They idled along the shore, side-by-side under the shadow of the castle, while he talked and she listened. His parents had died in a shipwreck before he knew them. He grew up at Storm’s End under Ser Cortnay’s protection, visiting his older brothers at King’s Landing and Dragonstone from time to time, spending summers in Estermont with his mother’s family.

“You probably don’t remember, but we’ve met before,” he said. “Twice.”

“Really?”

“Once was during the siege of Storm’s End--Ser Cortnay and I stayed at Tarth for safety. I was almost seven.”

“I must have been only three.”

“You were very small. And there was some singer, he played a ‘cello…”

“Copper Tongue?!” Brienne exclaimed. “You remember Copper Tongue!”

Renly snapped his fingers.

“Copper Tongue, yes that’s it! I have forever tried to remember his name. I always begged Ser Cortnay--please let us go back to Tarth and hear the ‘cellist! Oh, he was brilliant. Is he still here, at Evenfall?”

“Sadly, no,” she said. “But he has work at the inn in the forest.”

“Perhaps we can visit him sometime.”

Her heart fluttered. Did that mean he was staying? Or coming back? She dared not ask.

“What was the other time we met?”

“It was a tourney. You were just a babe in your mother’s arms.”

“You remember my _mother?”_

Brienne’s mother was mythical to her, at best. Her father never talked of her. Yet Brienne often wondered.

“I was only four so my memory is hazy,” he said. “But I remember that she was kind. She had freckles, like you.”

“I wish I had known her.”

“You lost your brother too, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“What happened to Galladon?”

She glanced out to sea, that black and roaring oblivion.

“The sea swept him away almost ten years ago. Not far from where we’re standing.”

Renly’s countenance darkened.

“I had no idea,” he said, touching her arm. “It doesn’t distress you to be here, does it?”

“No, not at all,” she said hurriedly. “It was so long ago…and I remember the happy things, mostly.”

Rambling along the pebbled beach with Galladon, their small voices struggling against the wind. Waves and treasures washing upon the shore.

“We would collect shells, sea glass. And we would race to that rock over there.”

Renly followed her gaze to the large boulder in the water, half submerged.

“It’s almost like he never was,” she said quietly. “But it was nice just to have someone.”

They looked out at the sea. It roared and rolled, rushing gently around the rock.

“Well,” Renly said. “Now you have me.”

He took off his greaves, his boots, and rolled up his trousers.

“What are you doing?”

His breastplate fell. Armor clinked on the pebbles as he removed each piece.

“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m going for a swim. And so are you.”

“I am not.”

“Then I suppose I’ve already won the race,” he said, nodding toward the rock.

“A race?”

A tiny flame of competition lighted in her heart, but she looked down at her gown. Beneath was only her corset and small clothes.

“I can’t,” she protested.

Renly pulled off his heavy mail, his black leathers. She stood frozen, staring at him in only his linen trousers. The moon beamed white over his bare chest--fine, lean, and muscled.

“Come, you won’t have me get drenched alone, will you?”

He flashed her a devilish grin, then splashed into the water.

“Renly!”

She ran and waded after him, skirts billowing all around her as she dove in and fought to close the gap between them. Ripples and waves danced in the cool light, cutting the moon’s path across the water. Renly shouted victory when he touched the rock, but Brienne dunked his head into the water, scrambling up over him to the craggy pinnacle. She perched there, soaked and breathless, wringing out her long braid of hair that had come uncoiled.

He climbed up beside her, coughing from his unexpected drink of salt water.

Embarrassment flooded her.

“That was very unladylike of me,” she said, helping him up. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he said. “I think it’s brilliant.”

“You do?”

“Of course!” he said, rubbing his fingers through his wet hair. “Seven hells. I had the advantage and you still beat me. You must be stronger, quicker than most full-grown men!”

She might have beamed inside to hear the same from her master-at-arms—but not from Lord Renly.

_Ladies aren’t supposed to be like full-grown men._

She felt restless, and fumbled for shells or pebbles—something to hold. A stone fit perfectly into her palm; cool, smooth as skin. It calmed her. Still, as her thumb grazed over it and she looked out at the waves, she wondered.

“Would that my brother had lived.”

The words escaped her without thought--yet they had come forth as naturally as waves lapping on rock.

Renly was quiet for some time, then spoke softly.

“I have often wished the same of my parents. But such musings are little comfort. At least you have your father. And he has you.”

Brienne sighed.

“I mean to say that my brother should have lived instead of me,” she said. “My father would have a son for his heir. He wouldn’t have to worry about me being a lady.”

“But…you _are_ a lady.”

He was so kind. Why was he so kind?

“No, I’m not,” she insisted. “I’ve never been small enough, never dainty enough.”

She sighed again, gazing out. The stars glimmered heartbeatingly. Below the night sky glistened little wavelets, flickering like a thousand candleflames in a mirror.

“I should have been born a boy.”

Renly sat in solemn silence. Then he chuckled.

Heat rushed to her cheeks.

“What is it?”

He laughed more, and laughed harder.

“It’s just that—when I was a boy, I often thought I should have been born a girl.”

“You’re mocking me.”

“I promise you, I’m not. You should have seen me--I loved dancing, running with ribbons all up and down the halls of the Red Keep.”

Brienne stifled her own laughter.

“You didn’t!”

“Oh, but I did,” he said. “And would you believe--I picked flowers _everywhere_ that I walked.”

Brienne smiled. She wanted to touch him, but dared not. Instead, she clasped her smooth stone tighter. It was warm.

“It sounds like you were a very sweet boy.”

His own smile waned, his brightness dimmed.

“Sweet was the problem,” he said grimly. “Robert chided me often for it. I was never man enough, in his eyes.”

A cloud moved over the moon and obscured his face. His wet mane was black as ever, the green of his eyes turned slate by moonlight. Somehow, shadows made him all the more handsome.

“You’re certainly man enough now.”

Renly’s gaze snapped toward her, a curious light in his eyes. She blushed away, heart pounding.

_Did I really just say that?_

“Brienne,” he started slowly. “You are a wonderful person. It is so easy to talk to you, and we have so much in common, but…but…”

Her heart fell.

_But…_

He frowned, searching for words as she prepared herself for the worst.

“Oh, the hell with it.”

The next thing she felt was his hand on the back of her head. He leaned over, and pulled her in. And then he kissed her.

The stone dropped from her hand, and fell into the water.

-

Selwyn

-

 

“A brilliant event,” Eldon Estermont commended. “Truly one of the better balls I’ve been to.”

Servants cleared the tables. Musicians played softly as guests trickled out the hall. Feathers of all colors dusted the floor. Candles burned low. Selwyn felt relieved. He couldn’t remember the last time a feast or public event at Evenfall went without incident.

“Thank you Eldon.”

He had always found pleasant company in the heir to Estermont; a trustworthy, kind man, and recently a widower. He stood a hand shorter than Selwyn—which was to say he quite tall, but not extremely so—and had a tortoise-like build, rotund yet athletic. Lines of laughter creased his tawny face, and the sage green of his eyes matched his sea god costume; strips of leathers dyed blue and green wrapped his arms, and a cape of braided kelp hung from his back.

Eldon appeared far younger than his sixty years--such were the blessings of the southron isle that all residents looked healthy and glowing into old age. It was said to be in the water. Still, Selwyn could not imagine that he seriously meant to contend for Brienne’s hand.

“A shame your grandson Alyn could not attend,” Selwyn said.

“He is rather young for courting.”

“Fourteen, isn’t he? A year older than Brienne.”

“Boys mature slower than girls. I should know, I have six granddaughters--even the younger ones are more sensible.”

Selwyn smiled.

“Grandchildren already,” he marveled. “And your father still lives. Would that my family were blessed with such legacy.”

“Yet you are blessed in your own right. Tarth trade flourishes.”

Perhaps this was the real purpose of Eldon’s visit--to speak at length on trade and commerce. The issue of pirates had plagued Estermont of late, dwindling their fleet and profits.

“I hear you have augmented your study with an observatory?” Eldon pressed. “Some new contraption from across the Narrow Sea?”

Indeed he had. Tired though he was, Selwyn could never resist an opportunity to show off his latest acquisition. So he invited Eldon to his council chamber, and led him through to the dark, dome-shaped room that opened to the sky. In the middle stood his Myrish starglass, its tapered cylinder on a swivel pointing toward the heavens.

Eldon knit his brows together as he peered through the lens.

“It is a full moon and not ideal for gazing,” Selwyn said. “On a blacker night you can see much more.”

“Are those little moons around that one star?”

“Those are rings, formed of bits of rock and dust.”

“Marvelous,” he said, admiring the contraption. “The like of it I’ve never seen.”

“The Myrish study of science advances far beyond anything we have in Westeros,” Selwyn said as the two walked back into the council chamber. “I was quite lucky to have sold their prince a fine chunk of marble last year for a fair price—such was his gratitude, he gifted the starglass to me.”

“Simply outstanding,” Eldon said. He took a seat at the table with its relief carving of Westeros, glanced at his own piece of the kingdom, and sighed.

“Would that Estermont could make profitable trade in exchange for a starglass. But alas, our main selling point is the green of our waters—and not so easy to export.”

Selwyn smiled.

If Tarth was the Sapphire Isle, Estermont was surely the Emerald Isle. Indeed, the water was green from mineral deposits and algae blooms, and said to have healing properties--lords and ladies from all over Westeros would spend months there soaking in the steaming pools. A true paradise--the southron isle was the first to warm after winter, the last to cool after summer with its balmy breezes, gentle as an embrace. The last Selwyn had visited was on holiday with Helaena, shortly after they were married. How they had both loved those hot springs, the white beaches dotted with seals and sea turtles, the dolphins dancing at the prow of their ship upon departure. He promised her they would return. But that was before. That was when he thought they would have a lifetime of chances.

“We all go through waves of wealth and hardship,” Selwyn said. “You have many children to help you through the tides.”

Eldon nodded in solemn consideration.

“A man can always have more children. In fact...I would like to offer your daughter my hand.”

So there it was.

“Sadly, I will have to decline your offer--I believe she’s made her decision.”

“Really? And who’s the lucky lad?”

“Lord Renly.”

"Ah,” Eldon said, with an air of revelation. “Well. I wish you best of luck with grandchildren, then.”

A certain irony edged his voice, slightly unsettling--as if the man were privy to some unique knowledge. Selwyn might have ignored the odd sentiment and changed the subject, yet his mind pricked with curiosity.

"I wonder what you mean?"

"Nothing. It was poorly worded. Only--you know my dear sister Cassana was Renly's mother. As such, Renly has visited Estermont on occasion to be fostered by our family. Such a charming, sensitive little fellow. Loved dancing, putting flowers in his hair. Always preferred the company of girls to boys. But of late, he is rather attached to his page--the boy from Highgarden. Very attached.”

Selwyn’s stomach tightened. It was the same feeling as when he spoke to Ser Goodwin earlier. One report he could ignore, but two...

 _“How_ attached?”

“Well. If you will hear it...”

They were quite alone, but Eldon shifted in his seat, speaking in a voice lower than the gods themselves could hear. Selwyn leaned forward.

“One night, I was awakened by some splashing in the bathing pools of Greenstone’s gardens. Normally I might not have seen them for the steam, but it was a clear night and a full moon, much like tonight. The steam cleared and I saw them...fucking in the bathing pools.”

Selwyn closed his eyes.

He remembered young Renly at the tourney, ribbons flowing on his back as he danced.

_Gay as a first summer’s day._

“Did you never wonder why Renly Baratheon is interested in the daughter of a minor house?” Eldon posed. “Such a secret he knows he cannot keep for long. Best not to marry the likes of wolves or lions--they would tear him apart.”

And then there was King Robert’s letter from last year:

_I have reason to think Renly will take a liking to Brienne._

Selwyn’s jaw clenched to think of it. The insult--did Robert honestly insinuate that his daughter was _mannish?_

Eldon leaned in further.

“Kinship ties with Baratheons have done nothing to alleviate our troubles at Estermont; it will do little to help yours, Selwyn. King Robert seeks only to help himself. But if your daughter were to give her hand to me, we could join Estermont and Tarth. Trade would prosper. I would invest the profits from your marble into forestry, we could build a fleet together to rival that of the Redwynes, even the Iron Islands. I already have my son and heir, grandchildren by him. I would happily give all Brienne’s sons and daughters to Tarth if we could forge this alliance.”

Selwyn noticed Eldon’s hands, clenched on the table. They were old, the skin stretched and darkened by age.

“You are twelve years my senior, Eldon,” he said quietly. “And Brienne is thirteen.”

The older man considered this.

“I do not have the advantage of youth. But age has given me wisdom lacking in these young lordlings, sent here by their fathers. There are more Red Ronnets in this world than you know.”

Selwyn bristled at the mention. It seemed every bloody lord in the kingdom knew how Ronnet had jilted his daughter.

“I will treat her kindly, gently. You will see her often.”

“Allow me to think on it.”

There was a knock at the door. Maester Osmynd entered.

“All the lords and ladies have been given rooms for the night, my lord. Renly and Brienne have just returned from their sojourn on the shore.”

Selwyn rose from the table, and so did Eldon.

“Of course, I won’t keep you--”

“The hour is late--”

“I should retire myself.”

Eldon made to leave. At the door, he turned back.

“Leave the great houses to each other, Selwyn,” he said. “They are naught but trouble with their secrets and their drama. They lead short lives.”

And so the heir of Estermont said goodnight.

Maester Osmynd raised an eyebrow. Selwyn sighed, but gave no explanation.

“I need Lord Renly and Brienne brought to me as quickly as possible,” he said. “Separately.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Telling Renly was easy. Selwyn spun a lie about reading the stars, and seeing that a Tarth-Baratheon marriage was unfavorable. _With so much ill luck that has befallen my house, I must be cautious._ It was a carefully masked truth, and Renly’s gaze flickered in alarm. Yet he did not protest.

“I do very much like Brienne. I wish all the best for her.”

Selwyn nodded.

“So do I.”

They traded light banter on politics, weather, discussed arrangements for the parting ship on the morrow. And Lord Renly made his exit.

Telling Brienne was much, much worse.

His daughter burst into the council chamber, cheeks all pink and glowing. Her gown was soaked, her hair a mess. She looked more a wet chicken than a swan.

“Brienne, what in gods have you--Oof!”

She leapt into his lap and threw her arms around his neck, her laughter effervescent as bubbled wine.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” she said, peppering his cheek with kisses.

“Brienne--”

“I know I acted so childish earlier, and loathed even the thought of this ball. But it’s been magical, simply wondrous! And Renly is all in a man that I could ever want!”

“About Lord Renly, Brienne--”

“How soon may we be married?”

“You’re not marrying him.”

She paused a moment, then laughed again.

“But of course I am! He told me about the betrothal, how he asked your blessing and you gave it. I know why you kept it secret, you wanted to see that I was happy with him. And I am happy, father--happier than I’ve ever been in my whole life!”

Her blue eyes gleamed bright, shining with love and excitement. Selwyn felt himself folding in, as if crushed under a heavy weight. How he wanted this for her. For a brief, longing moment, he thought of calling Renly back. He thought of saying that the stars had lied, and he made a mistake.

Yet that would be a far greater mistake.

_The sooner I tell her, the better._

“Brienne, listen to me,” he said, taking her hands. “There is no longer an arrangement for you to marry Lord Renly.”

She blinked, and her smile twitched.

“What?”

“I withdrew the offer.”

Her face fell. Her hands withered from his.

“No...no. Why?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Why?” she demanded. She stood before him in a fighter’s stance, but her chin trembled.

“Trust me--you wouldn’t be happy, Brienne.”

She shook her head in disbelief, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“I would be happy. He’s kind to me. He danced with me. He _kissed_ me.”

“I have another suitor for you. Eldon Estermont very much desires your hand.”

“Eldon Estermont?” she said, in shocked disgust. “But...he’s old!”

“He’s a good man.”

“Renly is a good man! I don’t want to marry anyone else but him--I love him!”

“Don’t say that, you don’t even know him.”

“No, no--you’re the one who doesn’t know him!” she said, her voice shaking with anger. “And you don’t know me either.”

“Brienne--”

“I _hate_ you!”

She whirled away from him, rushing for the door. Selwyn stood stung and powerless as she slammed it shut, sobs diminishing down the corridor. All the guests would hear. He barely cared.

He sat at his table for a long time, rubbing his temples. His eyes drifted over the raised carving of Westeros until the lands looked foreign, the names of houses senseless.

He wandered into the observatory, peered into his starglass again. The stars had moved. But not even the heavens could distract him. He sighed and shoved the lens aside. A flash of gold caught his peripheral vision. Holding his breath, he turned.

Roelle appeared from the darkness.

“Gods, Roelle--you gave me such a start,” he breathed. “How long have you been here?”

“Since before you came in with Lord Estermont,” she said. “I came in to gaze at the stars myself, and didn’t make my presence known for fear of interrupting. I am sorry, my lord.”

He didn’t know she had taken to stargazing. Indeed, it seemed that ever since Roelle had traded her septa’s robes for lady’s finery she had grown bolder, more inquisitive. Yet Selwyn could not begrudge her curiosity. In any case, she was here now. He could dismiss her, but his mind and heart were restless, and longing for an open ear.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” he said. “You heard everything, I suppose.”

“Yes. A disappointment about Renly.”

“You had no inkling?”

She gave a delicate shrug.

“Women are often blinded by the charms of men, enough that we overlook their shadows. And poor Brienne. She’s in love with him.”

“So she thinks. Meanwhile, Eldon Estermont makes a once-in-a-lifetime offer, and she will not have it. What am I to do?”

“She may yet change her mind.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

“Then perhaps you must change yours.”

Her gold eyes were still and solemn. He knew her meaning.

_If only you married again..._

Selwyn turned away.

“I’m just as bad as she is—no, worse,” he said, laughing a little. “In fact, she gets it from me. The Tarth line will die not from war or plague, but from extreme stubbornness and sentimentality. Cursed so by the heavens.”

“Do not accuse the stars, my lord. Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie.”

He shook his head.

“The only remedy lies in forgetting Helaena. That I cannot do.”

“Perhaps I can help,” she said, stepping lightly toward him. “I can sing you a song, my lord.”

He scoffed.

“I told you before, I care not for songs.”

“This one is different, my lord. Do you remember the story I told you two years hence?”

“Of course.”

Though he hadn’t let her finish, the story haunted him still. In his dreams, he was the king whose kingdom was swept away by darkness. A kingdom that looked like Tarth, crumbling into the sea--groaning like a ship splitting in two. Then a soothsayer would come knocking, presenting him with three boxes of silver, gold, and lead. The first took his wife, the second his children. What lay in the third, he never knew. He always awoke before opening it.

How he longed to be rid of that dream.

“So tell me,” he said wearily. “How does it end?”

Roelle smiled.

“After a very long deliberation, the king called back the soothsayer. She came forth with the lead box. He opened it—and out flew a golden bird, singing a song so sweet and so golden, it filled him with joy. It was a gift from the gods, shedding light on his broken world--it was so beautiful, he forgot his grief, and remembered beauty. He remembered life.”

Selwyn waited.

“Is that all? Is that the ending?”

“No,” she said, a bright and liquid sparkle in her eyes. “It is only the beginning.”

He shook his head, perplexed.

“But what can it mean?”

“There is no meaning but faith. Faith in the gods, and the precious life they give us.”

The music of her voice felt so soft, so close--a velvety, soothing balm. There was magic in her, he was sure of it. Had her story not given him night visions this past year?

“Would you hear the song of the golden bird, my lord?”

She stepped closer, pale moonlight washing over her.

How dull and grey she once had been, donned in loose-hanging robes. Now she sleeved her elegant figure in golden silk. Her skin was milk-smooth but for a small beauty spot that jeweled her right breast. She caught the direction of his gaze, and smiled.

He swallowed, knowing full well it was not just a song she offered.

“You have ever been my servant,” he said, but stayed frozen to place.

“Your faithful servant,” she said. “And now the gods wish me to serve you better.”

She loosened her dress. It crumpled to the floor.

A thirsty, pounding moment overtook him as he drank in the sight of her. Her womanly shape, tapering in and curving out like a bow. Her dark hair--the waves falling around her shoulders, the soft curls between her thighs. Her rose-tipped breasts.

She came to him, pressing herself against him. Her hands clutched in his robe.

“Let me sing you a song,” she whispered, her lips parting. “Just say yes.”

Her eyes were glowing orbs. A calm swept over him as he gazed into them, disquieting though it was. If he let her, she could control him like the moon controlled the sea.

A cold fear gripped him—a startling feeling which burned hot and broke his frozen stance.

“No!”

He pushed her away with more force than intended. She stumbled back with a gasp.

“My lord! I only thought—“

“You thought wrong.”

“I can make you forget--”

“You forget your place,” he stated. “And I’ve decided I do not want wish to forget mine.”

She stood naked and bewildered, holding her shoulder where he had pushed her back. He felt remorse.  But nothing more could be said.

He left her there, under the dome of stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, ahem. I did not plan for all of that to happen, but it did. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! I had a lot of fun writing the ball scenes, costuming everyone, and getting into Renly's head a little bit. 
> 
> Also, along with this chapter I've posted some major changes to the first chapter--added a Selwyn POV at the end which features newborn Brienne, her mother, some flashbacks to the past (in case you're looking for some fluffy stuff to balance out the angst at the end of this chapter :-))


	15. Cliff and Labyrinth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 14-year-old Brienne has had enough of Evenfall and tries to escape Tarth entirely--but of course, events don't go as planned.
> 
> Brienne POV, Ser Goodwin POV, Selwyn POV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grab yourself a cup of tea because drama is coming.

-

Brienne

-

Hooves pounded the ground.  Wind rushed past her face.  The night was moonless, the ride north from Evenfall long and dark.  And that was good.  She didn’t want to see Tarth on her last night here, and she certainly did not want to be seen.

Wetness streamed back from the corners of her eyes.  It was just dust kicking up, she told herself, even as she sniffed hard and bit her lip.

Brienne was running away.

What was there left for her here--the mounting pressure from her lord father to marry a man she did not want?  Admonishment from Roelle for not doing his bidding?  Brienne had even grown weary of the sparring yard.  She arrived late to practice and spoke curtly with her master-at-arms and squire mates. Ser Goodwin had tried to reach her, but his words fell on deaf ears.  What was it all for, if she could never be a knight? 

She pulled up the reins, and Sunburst trotted to a halt.  The stars cast some frail light down on the sea below the cliffs, and Brienne could just make out the shape of a large cargo ship in the harbor.  It was laden with marble and bound for Storm’s End at break of day.  Tonight, she would stow away on that ship before it sailed across the straits.

Across the straits was Renly.

She had locked herself in her chamber and cried for days after her father broke the betrothal.  It was like being given a precious gift, only to have it taken away from her.  She waited for a raven from Renly, lingering at the rookery with Maester Osmynd and watching the skies for weeks--but no birds came for her. She sat down to write a letter of her own, but only held the quill until it ran dry.  So she lay the blank parchment on her pillow, and left in the dead of night.

She slid off Sunburst and stepped cautiously to the cliff’s edge.  Far below, the ocean drummed and swirled.  The wind moaned and wailed, whistling low tones of anguish over the many caves that pocked the rock’s face.  There were fishwife tales of a shadow demon that lived in one of those caves.   _He has red eyes, eats children and gives the bones to his great big fearsome dog with teeth the size of swords!_   But such tales were only told to keep children from wandering where they shouldn’t go.

_And I am not a child anymore._

Brienne steeled her courage and unfastened the saddlebags, then slapped the animal’s hindquarters with a fierce _hyah._

Sunburst only grunted and nudged Brienne’s neck.

“Go _home_ , Sunburst,” she pleaded.

But the horse stayed rooted, pawing restlessly at the ground and shaking out her mane with defiance.

Brienne let it be, and picked her way down the craggy cliffside as the whinnies and pawings grew more distant.  The trail was steeper than she thought.  There was an easier way through the tunnel of the quarry, but that was some three miles away in Marblehead and closed by night.

The trail narrowed, the rocks turning chalky and loose.  It was so dark she may as well have been blind--at this rate she would be lucky to make it down to the ship by break of day.  She should have brought tar or pitch, something to hold fire for a torch.

Her foot slipped out in front of her.  She skidded off the trail and down the cliffside, sword dragging awkwardly and fingers scrabbling for something, anything--until a broad ledge caught her fall.  Brienne cursed and dusted herself off.  She blinked in the dim and flickering glow.

She leapt back from the light, looking to its source.  A fire crackled at the mouth of a small cave.  She felt a sharp point dig into the back of her neck.

She whirled, sword drawn.  The shadow of a dark, hooded figure some ten feet tall towered over her, long spear in hand.  Next to it loomed a monstrous beast, with a menacing, creamy snarl and teeth long as swords.

_The shadow demon._

“Who are you?” Brienne demanded, her voice quaking with fear.

The figure jumped from the ledge with the grace of a cat.  It was skinny and barely five feet tall.

_A child._

The beast came forward as well--without its shadow Brienne saw that it was only a small dog, scraggly and lame, hobbling on three legs.  The child still held the speared stick in an aggressive stance.

Brienne lowered her sword.

“You should put that down, I’m not going to hurt you,” she said.  “Where are your parents?”

No answer.  Brienne guessed that a child on its own with a spear probably didn’t have parents.

“Who am I to ask,” she sighed.  “My own father has no idea where I am.  I’m likely never to see him again.”

The child’s stance seemed to soften at this, and Brienne relaxed a little more.  The aroma of fish wafted under her nose, and her gaze flicked to the cave.  There was fish baking in clay on the embers.  It smelled delightful, and made her stomach rumble.  The child lowered spear and shuffled to the fire, nudging the fish from the embers.  The child turned back to Brienne, and beckoned her into the cave. 

Brienne followed.  She accepted a fish gratefully, and looked around.  It was a neat, clean living space with a bed of dry grass and rabbit pelts.  The three-legged dog turned in a sleepy circle and curled up by the fire.

She ate her meal and watched her host squat next to the fire, tending it.  There was something in the child’s precise and measured movements that was not childlike at all.  The hands were small, but rough and weathered.

“Thank you for the food,” Brienne said.

No answer.

“Do you understand me?”

The host turned slowly, then nodded.

“Will you show me who you are?”

The small hands pulled back the hood, and Brienne gasped.

Light shone plainly on a woman’s face--a woman nearing middle age.  Her black hair was streaked with silver.  She had an eastern look.  Brienne had seen similar features of merchants in the market selling silks and jade from Yi Ti, but this was no merchant.  Her face was carved with faded scars--but the worst was that she had only one eye.  Where her right eye might have been was a red and gaping hollow wound.  A thick angry scar roped above and below it, from brow to cheekbone.

The woman moved to lift her hood again.

“No--don’t,” Brienne said. “I would rather see your face. What is your name?”

The woman grabbed a stick and wrote in the dirt.

SUNYI QIN

“Soonyi...Kin?”

The woman touched a knuckle to her chin.

“Soonyi Chin.”

She nodded.

“And you’re all alone here?”

She whistled.  The three-legged dog stirred from sleep and crawled into Sunyi Qin’s lap.  She scratched behind his ears, fed him some fish.

“Does he have a name?” Brienne asked.

Sunyi shook her head no.

“How about...Hop?”

As if on cue, the dog hobbled over to Brienne’s lap--licking her hands and begging favor.  Brienne laughed and scratched behind his ears.  Sunyi smiled, her one black eye sparkling with affection.

Suddenly, Hop jumped out of Brienne’s arms and hobbled beyond the mouth of the cave.  He growled.  Sunyi leapt to her feet in one swift motion, rushing to the entrance.  Brienne followed.

Little lights gleamed in the harbor.  A large ship with ample hull had anchored by the Tarth ship.  A smaller boat dispatched from the vessel and headed for the cliffs. Thick voices traveled over the water.

_"We take the ship, we take the village!"_

Brienne’s heart leapt into her throat.

“Pirates,” she said. “They’re coming ashore!”

Sunyi doused the fire with water.  Brienne scrabbled up the ledges of the cliffside, terror pounding in her chest.  She found the trail with Sunburst waiting at the top, then she mounted and rode for Marblehead at breakneck speed.

“Wake up! Wake up!” she cried, banging on every door.

Candles lighted in windows.  People sleepily poked their heads out of windows and stood in doorways.

_“What the devil--”_

_“Seven hells, it’s the Evenstar’s daughter!”_

“Brienne! What are you doing here?”

It was Will, one of her squire mates.  Brienne thanked the gods he was here in his home village tonight.

“Pirates! Pirates are coming!”

Murmurs rose into frantic shouts and screams.  People poured out of their houses in nightclothes with their children and precious belongings.  One woman carried a wailing babe in one arm and dragged a heavy sack with the other.

“Forget the things!” Brienne urged her and the rest.  “Run as fast as you can--go to the hills, the forest! Don’t look back!”

There were some horses, not many.  Brienne sent one rider to Evenfall.  But it was a four-hour journey at best.   _Help will not come before the pirates do._

“Able-bodied men and strong lads, stay back!” Will shouted.  “We fight!”

Some fifty men circled round the young squires.

“Do we have swords?” Brienne asked him.  “Do we have arrows?”

“None,” Will murmured.  “You and I are the only fighters here.”

Cold fear gripped her.  She breathed in deep.

“Take half of them with you to guard the quarry,” she said.  “Take whatever they wield best.  Pickaxes, chisels, anything with a point!”

The remaining twenty or so looked to Brienne.   _No armor, no leather, no weapons._  She swallowed her fear.  It was the only way.

“Do you have fire tar or resin?”

They did. They also had carts and barrows, and Brienne helped push them to the cliffs and cover them in tar.  She looked down.  Lights wavered up the trail. Heavy boots pounded and steel clinked in between menacing shouts.

Brienne whispered a prayer for Sunyi Qin and her dog, then lighted and loosed the first cart. It rambled down the cliffside in a blaze.  Brienne heard shouts of agony. Flaming bodies threw themselves off the cliff and into the sea.  She cringed away, but helped to light and launch more carts.

_“It’s working!”_

_“We’re mowing them down!”_

The sky was turning grey with early morning light when a youth came riding from the village.

“They’ve broken the tunnel gate! They’re coming through, we can’t hold them back!”

By the time she arrived at the quarry, the enemy had flooded through.  The stoneworkers fought bravely, but their pickaxes were no match for the pirates’ long scythe-like swords and broad daggers.  Will was down there with the only sword, fighting for his life.  His foot slid in a puddle of red.  A pirate disarmed him, then knocked him to the ground and raised sword to deliver the final blow.

Brienne leapt down into the quarry between them.  She caught the blow with her own sword.  Her opponent was huge and fierce, dirt caked in the crevices of his windburnt skin.  Half his face was tattooed greenish black.  He stood her height and was twice as broad--yet his eyes widened when he saw that he had crossed swords with a woman.

Brienne used that surprise to her advantage.

With a grunt she pushed back, parrying him into a corner.  When he had nowhere to go she pressed her sword against his in an overhand posture, pinning him to the wall.  Then with her left hand she drew her short sword from her belt, pointing it into his neck.  The word yield was on her lips--but this was not a sparring yard.  This was real, and she had to sink the point into his flesh. She had to kill.

The man’s sight shifted to something behind her.  His lips turned up into an evil smile.  Brienne heard the sound of steel on leather, then felt sharp pain searing across her belly.  She cried out and collapsed to the quarry floor.

Large boots paced toward her.  A dirty hand adorned with rings picked up her sword.

“Castle-forged steel,” he mumbled.  He lifted a hank of her hair with the sword, grazing her cheek with the point.  “She ain’t no princess, but she’s important.  Take her to the ship, we’ll hold her ransom.”  He knelt next to her.  His breath was foul.  “We’ll have some fun, won’t we lass?”

The others laughed, binding her up and dragging her by the ankles.  Brienne tried to scream but could barely breathe for the pain.  She glanced about for help--but all her own people lay dead or injured.  

Something caught the corner of her eye.  At the quarry’s edge was a small figure cloaked in black.  It leapt down soundlessly with the grace of a cat.

_Sunyi Qin._

She moved quick as wind, limbs flying and spear circling the air.  Brienne’s captors thudded to the ground like sacks of potatoes.  Blood spattered the marble.

Brienne grew weak, and all went black.

-

Water trickled into a bowl.  Brienne opened her eyes to a warm glow from a hearth.  She recognized the plump woman with brown skirts who tended to her wounds.

“Hydda?” she croaked.

“Shush, love,” she said.  “Don’t move. And mind your eyes.”

Hydda cracked the curtains, and Brienne blinked in the light that flooded in.  She heard the skid of hooves, boots hitting the ground outside the inn.

“It’s your lord father,” the innkeeper murmured.

Not a minute later, Lord Selwyn stooped through the door, his long grey hair wind-mussed and thick brows clenched tightly in despair.  Ser Goodwin, Ser Hugh the sailing master, and Maester Osmynd followed close behind.  Relief dawned in his eyes to see his daughter alive and well.

“Just some broken ribs and blood loss, my lord.  She’ll heal up nicely.”

The Evenstar regarded Hydda as if seeing her for the first time.

“The village maester died in the fightin’, so they brought her here with the others--”

“How many dead?”

“Twelve,” she replied.  “But we have some ten others fighting for their lives.”

“Will?” Brienne asked.

“Alive,” Hydda said.  “But his father is not.”

“Will’s father?” Lord Selwyn said.  “The chief stonemason?”

The innkeeper nodded solemnly.

Lord Selwyn turned on Ser Hugh, furious.

“None of this would have happened had that ship been guarded.”

“We have never done so in the past, my lord,” Ser Hugh said, his broom-like mustache twitching.  “You never commanded it-- _ow!”_

Ser Goodwin had given the man a fierce nudge.

The Evenstar was oversized for the small room, and hunched forward from the ceiling.  It made him look all the more imposing, all the more enraged as he approached Ser Hugh. His eyes burned dark with contempt.

“I should not have to command it,” he said lowly.  “Therefore I will find a new sailing master.  Now leave.”

“My lord--”

“Now.”

He did as he was bid.  Lord Selwyn turned back to Brienne--who, until this moment, had forgotten that she herself was in the room.  She met his gaze, hoping to find pride or approval there.  Yet his blue eyes were cast grim with perplexed disappointment.

_What were you doing out there?_

She looked away.

“Ser Goodwin and Maester Osmynd, stay here with her. I’m riding on to Marblehead.”

So her lord father left. Maester Osmynd checked her wound dressings, then he went to see others with more serious conditions.

“You’ve done well, Hydda,” Ser Goodwin said. “I didn’t know you had skill in medicine.”

She shrugged.

“I know ribs from elbows.  My uncle was a maester.”

Brienne looked from knight to innkeeper.  Even in her dazed state she could feel the tension.  Ser Goodwin seemed genuinely confused by Hydda’s coolness.

“There were reports of an easterner,” he pressed.

“Sunyi Qin!” Brienne said, suddenly remembering.  “She’s all right?”

“Don’t move so much, love, you’ll make it worse ‘fore it gets better.”

“Whattee chin?” Ser Goodwin said.

“Sunyi Qin.  A warrior.  A _woman_ warrior.  I saw her fight.  Hydda, is she ok?”

“I assume so.  She’s a YiTish warrior, isn’t she?”

“A YiTish  _warrior?”_ Ser Goodwin blurted, incredulous.  “Here? How?”

“She’s lived in the caves on the northern coast these past, oh, ten years,” Hydda said nonchalantly.  “But she’s harmless.  A one-eyed mute, keeps to herself mostly.”

“Harmless?” Ser Goodwin rasped.  “ _Harmless?_ I don’t care how many eyes they don’t have, YiTish warriors are deadly dangerous.  You knew that there’s been one hiding out on Tarth for ten years, and you never told me?”

“Fancy folk don’t need to know all the things us little folk know.”

Ser Goodwin blinked.

“I’m not fancy folk!”

“Oh?” she said. “You live in a castle. You go to masquerade balls.”

Soft realization dawned on his features.  He brought his hands to his face.

“Oh gods. I forgot--”

“You said maybe you would ask me to go. I took your maybe for a certainty, ‘specially given how often you were comin’ round.”

“Hydda, I’m so sorry--”

“I had a gown all ready, didn’t I?  I was waitin’ for you all day.  You never came.”

“I forgot because it was so stupid.  I didn’t even wear a costume, I was irritable all evening.  You wouldn’t have wanted my company in such the state that it was.”

“I always want your company.”

Her chins trembled as she waited for him to say something, but Ser Goodwin only gave her a pained expression.  She left the room.  He slumped into a chair, looking miserable.

Once again, Brienne remembered that she was in the room. 

“You should go to her,” she said haltingly.

He glared at her.

“So you saved a village.  Are you now dispensing relationship advice?”

“No.”

He leaned his head back against the wall and sighed.  

“Your father didn’t stay long enough to ask you, so I will,” he said, leaning forward again to squint at Brienne. “Are you fucking stupid?”

She flinched.  He might as well have slapped her.

“That’s right.  You want to act like you’re an adult, I’ll talk to you like one.  You were running away, weren’t you?”

She looked down at the her hands, the scrapes on her palms from the cliffs.

“Yes.”

“And where to?  Did you think of that, even for a second?”

“Storm’s End.”

“Of course.  And what then?  Did you think that you and Renly would run off together, to defy your families and the world?”

She did think something like that.  Now that Ser Goodwin said it in so many words, it sounded ridiculous and naive.

“We’ve been through this before, Brienne,” he sighed, rubbing his brow.  “Lord Renly prefers men to women.  And that’s why your lord father broke the betrothal.”

She knew, but she had loved and longed for him all the same.  She thought that perhaps she might be different.  But now, after the night’s events, everything was different.

“It’s not just about Renly,” she said.  “Not anymore.”

“Then what is it about?”

“I don’t want the life that’s here for me.  I want to be out there.”

She didn’t know how to say it better, but Ser Goodwin seemed to understand.  He walked slowly to her bedside, sat next to her.

“You’re the best swordsman I’ve ever trained,” he said quietly.  “But you have a maid’s heart.  You can’t survive by yourself out there if you can’t kill.”

“Then teach me how,” she pressed.  “Teach me how to be a warrior.”

“A warrior?” he repeated.  “You want to be a warrior, girl?  You want to have scars?”

His own scar jagged from temple to jaw.  And Sunyi Qin’s gaping eye wound was far worse.

“I don’t care about scars,” she whispered.  A tear streamed down her cheek.

He sighed heavily.

“Then we need to fix this,” he said.  “This crying thing. If you want to be a warrior, we need to toughen you up.”

-

Ser Goodwin

-

He took her to the butchery.  It was a dark and dank room in the bowels of the kitchen with just one high and boxy window.  Hanging carcasses dripped blood onto the rust-red floor.  A thick-necked Pentoshi man greeted them, cleaver in hand. He had small black eyes and a bulging belly that preceded him.

“This is Yorish,” Ser Goodwin told Brienne.  “And all this--your new sparring yard.”

He watched her the first time.  She wept as she killed the squealing lambs and suckling pigs, hands shaking so violently that she could barely continue. She lifted an arm to wipe the tears, only to bloody her face and smear it worse.

His heart ached for her. Perhaps it was too much.

“It's your choice whether you continue,” he said.  “But it will make you tougher.”

She drew in a ragged breath and looked at him with fierce determination.

“I want to do it.”

He nodded, then looked to Yorish.

“Don’t bring her back to me until she can work a full day without crying.”

Killing lambs and pigs wasn’t the same as killing men, but it would do for now.  Lord Selwyn would not approve of it, he knew.  But the Evenstar had other worries to consume his time.  He had punished everyone for the incident at Marblehead--endless meetings for his staff, longer shifts for the guardsmen, and the sailors never stopped patrolling the coastline.  At first, all were eager to follow orders--who wouldn’t, after such tragedy at home?  But weeks passed and they grew weary and jaded, with no further provocation to validate the heightened posture.

Ser Goodwin tried to keep up spirits and morale the best he could, but still there were grumbles.

_Ain’t no need for these hours._

_He’s makin' work for work’s sake._

_It’s that woman of his.  Bad luck for a lord to have a mistress for so long without marrying her._

Ser Goodwin let the rumors go.  He even smiled at them.

Roelle had laid low for the past year.  She had no other choice.  Lord Selwyn had grown agitated with her, speaking shortly and avoiding her gaze at every necessary encounter.  He even excluded her from council meetings.  Her duties had been reduced to almost nothing.

Something had happened.  Ser Goodwin deduced that she made a move on Lord Selwyn--a move that was not well-received.   _Good._   He had previously worried that Lord Selwyn had let down his guard for her, or worse--that he even wanted her.  But no.  He well understood her intentions now, and rejected them.  Once rumors reached his ears that Roelle was regarded as his mistress and bad luck, he would certainly dismiss her.

Ser Goodwin walked through the gardens on his evening off to clear his mind, admiring the blooming flowers.  Roelle had taken to gardening as a way to cower and lick her wounds.  The rose bushes had been long neglected after Lady Helaena died, the hedges overgrown--but Roelle had done magnificent work restoring their beauty.  Small difference her efforts would make.  If anything, Lord Selwyn would be angry that she had dared to touch them.  Even in his hatred of her, Ser Goodwin almost felt a pang of pity for the former septa.  A flourishing garden was the only legacy she could hope to leave behind now; the only thing that would grow in her absence.

_Legacy._

The word that obsessed nobility. Once the current state of panic dissipated, he hoped that Lord Selwyn and Brienne could begin to repair their relationship.  The Evenstar had imposed a strict curfew on his daughter, confining her to the castle walls unless escorted.  This did not go well by the girl who loved adventures and the outdoors.  She took meals in her chamber, avoided all contact with her lord father.  They both were so alike, so blinded by stubbornness that they forgot to see each other--to cherish what they had.

Ser Goodwin reflected on this as he paused by a bed of pink tulips.  He smiled.  Hydda liked tulips.

-

Not two hours later, he entered the old inn door with a full bouquet of tulips.  The inn was crowded and bursting with music.  He was glad for that.

“Well who’s this, all gussied and flurried up?” Copper Tongue said, with wide eyes and an impish grin.

Ser Goodwin was wearing his best.  He had even shined his boots.

“I’ve come to beg a dance from your kind hostess.  Where is she?”

“Goodwin!” Hydda exclaimed.  She wiped her chubby hands on her apron as she came to the door, bewildered.  “What in gods--”

“Go put your gown on,” he said.  “I want to dance.”

She tried to look cross, but a girlish smile tugged at her lips.

The gown wasn’t pure silk but it was pink like the tulips, and she looked lovely and happy in it.  Copper Tongue played a dancing tune, and they circled and stepped lightly while the guests gathered round and clapped.  Such a merry evening it was.  And when the last of guests had left or retired to their rooms, the knight and innkeeper danced slow to the crackling hearth.

“I’ve half a mind to believe you’re courting me again,” she said.

He considered it.

“I might be.”

She blushed like a young maid.

“All your mights and your maybes, Ser Goodwin. How do I even know I’ll see you before the year turns?”

“You will, and many times over,” he promised. “I have very much missed your company.”

He told her why he had been absent; the tensions at Evenfall, Lord Selwyn’s tightened rule, Brienne and her tears.

“The only good thing is that Roelle is on her way out. That much I know for certain.”

Hydda frowned.

“There’s rumor on the breeze that she’s Lord Selwyn’s mistress.”

“I know.  I started it.”

Her face darkened. She stopped dancing.

“You didn’t.  That’s not like you--”

“I did.  It’s personal now--she’s started plenty of rumors about me, I can do the same to her.”

She shook her head.

“You shouldn’ta done. It’s only the wicked who know what they do with rumor.”

“I know what I’m doing,” he said.  “She’s already lost his favor in good part.  This should be the last straw.”

“Should be and is are different things,” Hydda said ominously.  “Rumor’s a seed that you think you know what you’re plantin’--until you see it grow.”

-

Selwyn

-

The sun shone coldly.

He wandered barefoot through barren fields.  The blades of grass were sharp as knives and sliced his skin with every step.  He looked out to sea; there was nothing there but an empty crater, dry and cracked.  He came to the village; it was deserted.  Skeletons littered the quarry, the marble washed with blood.

Selwyn woke with a start.  Late afternoon light slanted through the window of his council chamber.

_Pirates.  Unguarded ships.  Dead men at Marblehead._

The list looped endlessly through his mind, and it kept building. _Shortage of stonemasons.  Foreigners hiding in coves._

He hunched back over a thick book, tracing the lines of his accounts.  The marble trade profits were the one thing he had.  Now even those dwindled.

Selwyn sighed and rubbed his eyes, ran his fingers through his coarse grey hair.  It thinned at the crown and temples. He would be fifty on his next name day, but he felt much older.  More tired. 

His gaze fell on a letter nearby.  He picked it up.  It was not the first time he read it through, it would not be the last.  Lord Eldon Estermont had written to express his sympathy for the attack, and once again offered his hand for Brienne.

Selwyn rubbed his eyes again.   _Brienne, Brienne._   What to do about his daughter was the greatest vexation of all.  She was stubborn, she was restless, she was in love with a man she could not have.  And she had tried to run away.  Selwyn caught a chill every time he thought of what might have been. _Thank the gods she’s alive._ Yet the relief was only cold comfort.  She despised him.  What had Selwyn done to make his own daughter despise him so?

 _She does not despise you,_ Ser Goodwin had told him. _You must go and speak with her._

He made his way down the hall to her chamber, summoning forth fond memories of when she was young.  He remembered reading to her.  Brienne always begged for stories--anything to do with princesses, knights and dragons.  What happy days those were.

_But even then, they were not so happy._

He knocked; no answer.  A shuffle sounded in the corridor, and he turned.

She stood there with her hands folded over a white apron covered in blood.  Red caked her nails.

“Brienne?  What...is this?  Where have you been?”

“The butchery.”

“Why?”

“Part of my training.”

A wisp of congealed claret clung to her cheek.  It clashed obscenely with her bright blue eyes.  One would think she was a butcher’s daughter, not a highborn lady of Evenfall.

“This is not training, Brienne.”

“It is.”

“Nonsense.  I will not have you in a butchery.”

She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin.  She might be well over six feet, but she would never grow as tall as her father.  Still she stared up at him with steeled defiance.

“First the curfew, then the confinement to castle walls,” she said.  “Now you’re telling me what I can and can’t do even within those bounds?  Are you going to take away my sword as well?”

He had half a mind to take away her sword if this was the temperament it encouraged.

Perhaps she is only distressed from the attack.

“I’m sure that what you saw at Marblehead must have had a profound effect on you.”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“I am not patronizing you--”

“You see me as some delicate little girl who needs to be protected, but that’s not what I am!”

“Brienne--”

“I’m a warrior.  I was meant to be at Marblehead that night, I know it--”

“You are meant to be here!” he shouted.  “Not out there.  Not running away.”

Her chin trembled.  She blinked back tears.

“Can’t you even acknowledge that I helped people that night?  That I saved lives?”

He acknowledged it.  But he would not encourage it.

“If you really want to help the people of the isle, you would accept Eldon Estermont’s hand.”

She bit her lip hard, but could not hold the tears back any longer.  Her shoulders folded in, and he moved awkwardly to hold her.  She refused.

“Why does it have to all be on me?” she asked, wiping fiercely at her wet and freckled cheeks.  “Why can’t it be you to marry?”

Her face was a mask of tears.  He owed her an explanation.

“It’s too late for me.”

“That’s not what people say,” she whispered. “Everyone says things about Roelle.  About you.  And her.”

She pushed past him into her chamber.  The door slammed in his face.

He stood there stung and staring at the door.  Why was it that every time he tried to resolve an issue it only opened up like a wasp’s nest?

_Lady Roelle._

So there were rumors.  About him and her.  How, when he couldn’t even look her in the eye?  How, when he hadn’t even touched a woman since his wife’s death?  Ever since last year’s occasion when Roelle dropped her clothes for him like a brothel whore, he had lost all respect for her and could not bide her presence.  But now there were rumors.  And they had fallen on Brienne’s ears.

He sighed heavily.

_I must dismiss her. Tonight._

He found a handmaiden and asked after Roelle’s whereabouts.

“Where she always is, my lord.  The garden.”

“The _garden?”_

The garden was forever Helaena’s.  What was Roelle doing there?

He quickly descended the stairwell and exited the keep, circling the outer walls.  Tendrils of golden flowers hung from the arbor entrance.  He regarded them with irritation.

_They should be lilacs._

Then the rest of the garden opened up to him, and he caught his breath.

It was manicured elegance.  The small hedges were trimmed with stepstone paths, partitioning flower beds and circling little trees.  Lines crossed and curved, weaving designs fine and delicate as a lady’s embroidered bodice.  Even the large hedges which fringed the back of the garden had been tamed; not so long ago they were a beastly tangle, some ten feet high and deep as a small forest.  Now they still stood tall but trimmed, squared and joined by a lattice gate.

Cautiously he walked down the middle path.  Where rose bushes had withered into dry twists she had planted new ones, all in full bloom.  Tulips sprang amidst a bed of green.  A formation of sunflowers saluted the west.  He circled the pond.  It had been cleared of reed and lily pad overgrowth and was now full of fat fish, golden and swimming lazily.

_Golden._

His gaze swept over the whole of the garden.  Helaena’s garden had been violet and blue.  All that was gone.  Now only sunset colors reigned; golds and creamy ambers, pinks and blushing peaches.

A rustle startled him, and he looked to the tall hedges.  Roelle stood there at the gate.  She wore a bright silk dress of lemon and fresh fig green--it might have appeared garish against the grey walls of the castle, but here she blended in with the foliage.  She held his gaze a moment, then slipped through the lattice gate.

He went in after her.

Dusky hedges loomed tall over him.  The narrow path diverged once, then again.  And then again.  It was a labyrinth.   _This is Tarth, not bloody Highgarden,_ he thought with rising agitation as he followed the rustling of her skirts.

Her sound diminished.  The green passages carved round and wound tighter, turning him out into alcoves graced with bird fountains and statues of smiling children. He saw the same ones again and again. _This is madness._   One statue seemed to sneer at him, and he nearly struck it out of frustration.

A light and airy melody floated on the breeze.  He held his breath and listened, following it around the bend.

There she sat on a small bench, flanked by fluted columns and fanned by honeysuckle.  She put her embroidery aside and stood for him.

“My lord,” she said with delicate surprise, “I’m sorry, I did not know you were here.”

Of course she did.  He knew she knew.  And she knew that he knew.  But nevermind.

"Where are we?" he demanded.

"In the middle,” she said.

“The middle,” he scoffed, looking around.  “What, is this some intricate trap you’ve devised?”

“Not at all my lord.  There's a trick to the labyrinth--you just keep tracing this wall with your hand, it leads you straight out.”  She brushed the leaves with her elegant fingers.  “So you may leave any time you like.”

“Do not dismiss me, you are my servant.”

"I would not dare, my lord.”

Selwyn stared down at her contemptuously.  The neckline of her green dress plunged deeply, her pale breasts swelling with every breath.  He looked away.

"Lady Roelle,” he said.  “This has gone on long enough.  You cannot stay here, you must leave Evenfall.”

A silence passed.

“I know, my lord.”

He stole another glance at her.  Dark waves tumbled soft around her shoulders.  Her expression was serene and inscrutable, her eyes a honeyed amber.

“You do not protest?”

“There is nothing to protest.  I shall leave on the morrow,” she said.  “But if you don’t mind, I will linger here just a bit longer.  The nightingales are soon to come out."

Her soft countenance confounded him.  It irritated him, even.  His fists clenched tightly.

“Are you well, my lord?” she asked, her gentle brow furrowed.

“Why did you tend to the garden?” he blurted.

“It needed tending to, my lord.”

“You changed the colors.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“They have always been violet and blue.”

“They were withered and dying, my lord.”

“You did not ask my permission, you had no right.”

“As you say, my lord. I apologize, my lord.”

Now she was mocking him.  His blood boiled.

“Stop that!”

“Stop what, my lord?”

“Saying my lord after every single sentence!”

“Yes, Selwyn,” she said lowly.

His arm twitched at the blatant disrespect, and she flinched.  But this time he did not strike her, he did not push her away; he had no desire to.

Yet he desired.  So he pulled her in.

He kissed her lips hungrily like some starved animal, one hand tight on her waist and the other in her hair.  She sighed and melted into him and said his name again.  Fervently he loosened the bodice of her green dress, splitting it down until there was there was no more green--just the cream and rose blossom of her bare body. He felt her soft curves.  She unclothed him well enough, then they lowered to the grass where she lay spread beneath him.

_This._

This was why he had avoided her. How desperately he had tried not to feel anything for her.  Now he felt her in the most intimate way.  She gasped into his shoulder, her fingertips digging into his back.  He opened his eyes to see the inner shell of her ear, pink and flushing red.

When it was over they lay breathless.  He slowly became aware of the grass, the earthy musk it released.  Gritty dirt caked under his fingers.  The rest of the world came into focus, and he dreaded it.  He closed his eyes.  A vision came to him of his chamber and observatory--the maps and distant stars, so cold and dark.

Roelle lay here amongst sweet-smelling flowers and lush greenery, with husky eyes and soft lips parted.  Lying next to her like this, he did not feel so very tall; it was a strange relief.

_The rumors are already there. They may as well be true._

“Sing me your song,” he said.

She smiled and kissed him.

The ocean swelled in the distance.  Nightingales called.  Wind rustled through the hedges.  Her voice floated over the top, soft and sweet as the scent of honeysuckle and rose.  Selwyn lay in the flood of it and breathed in.

The sky blurred.  All went dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you think this has a happy ending (so soon) you haven't been paying attention.


	16. Dark Spell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A storm and dark spell has come over Tarth, and Ser Goodwin and Brienne have some difficult choices to make. The unraveling of Roelle. Goodwin POV, Brienne POV, Roelle POV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh I'm always happy when I get to update. School's out for summer next week, so I should be updating more regularly (every two weeks?) until the end of this story.
> 
> This chapter differs from others in that it picks up shortly after the last one ended (maybe a month later), and progresses over the course of a year.

-

Ser Goodwin

-

He lay wide awake, listening to the storm.

Long sweeping veils of rain slapped hard against the castle walls like giant sails loose in the wind. Thunder cracked in the distance, bounding ever nearer. Ser Goodwin had endured such storms and dark spells on Tarth--this was the Stormlands after all. But circumstances of his new residence made it far worse to bear; the narrow tower leaked and moaned hideously with every gust of wind.

“We must temporarily relocate your quarters, Ser Goodwin,” Lord Selwyn had told him some weeks prior. “Some repairs and improvements are necessary in several rooms of the keep.”

Surely nothing could be in more dire need of repair than this long-neglected, shivering tower. Yet he obliged without protest; years ago as a lordless hedge knight he had learned to sleep anywhere--tree hollows infested with spiders, mucked riverbanks with rats crawling over him. Sleep should come easy here.

But it did not. Wind whistled through the cracks of the crumbling stone walls. Water seeped in through the ceiling, dripping into wet nails on his face and puddling into the dips on the uneven floor of his bed chamber. His lodging here rather than in any other number of suitable rooms at Evenfall was an insult, and it reeked of Roelle.

_Witch._

Her own sleeping arrangements had changed as well--but not for repairs or improvements, no. The former septa now slept in the lord’s apartments with Lord Selwyn.

Hot indignation flooded him, not for the first time. How had it happened? How, after a year of apparent scorn and disdain, had Lord Selwyn welcomed the former septa into his bed?

He shuddered. He didn’t want to think about it, was tired of thinking about it. He tossed and turned until he found a somewhat comfortable spot, sighed as the storm eased some. He waited for the rain not to drip.

A droplet splashed into his ear.

_Fuck._

Ser Goodwin flung off the bedclothes, fumbled for a candle. He would go to the kitchen; though he had no appetite, eating was something to do.

Yet it was an effort even to get there.

He made his way down the cramped stairwell, the steps so high and narrow he had to descend them sideways. Once he managed to push open the tower door on its rusted hinges, he burst out into the rain which soaked him through in two seconds. Violet lightning split the sky. Pulling his cloak tightly, he braced himself against the wind and hurried across the courtyard to the keep. He reached the kitchen door, flung it open just as thunder shook the earth. _All this for a snack,_ he thought with his back pressed against the dry side of the door.

He realized his candle had gone out in the storm. Yet there was another light, flickering dim from the far end of the cavernous kitchens.

_Someone else is here._

He moved towards the glow--past the prep tables, past the cold cooking hearths with their large and empty stockpots. Still too early for servants. He walked past the pantry with its tall shelves of bread, dried meats and cheeses--but not before taking some for his pocket, of course. He peered round a corner and saw that the light shone from the butchery. The open doorway framed the tall silhouette of the Evenstar’s daughter, working at a small carcass with a sharp knife by candlelight.

“Brienne. What are you doing awake at this hour?”

She gutted a suckling pig, looped the entrails around her arm and tossed them aside. She set to work carving meat from bone.

“I would ask you the same.”

“Well. I couldn’t sleep for the rain and a lack of solid roofing. And you?”

“I couldn’t sleep, either.”

“The storm too loud?”

Her carving slowed. A blush crept across her cheeks.

“Not nearly loud enough,” she said lowly.

Ser Goodwin regretted asking. Brienne’s chamber was close enough to her lord father’s that she could probably hear too much; it was well known that Lady Roelle was a screamer.

“I’m sorry.”

She shrugged.

“No matter. There’s plenty of work to be done,” she said. “With so many people coming today.”

Lord Selwyn’s fiftieth name day celebration. There would be an open feast, a mummer’s play in the garden if the weather held, and a much-anticipated announcement. Everyone suspected what the news would be: his betrothal to Lady Roelle.

“I don’t understand how quickly it happened,” Ser Goodwin started. “I keep trying to think how I can stop it--”

“Don’t,” Brienne said. “It’s all for the best.”

He studied her. The girl frowned so much, she wore a perpetual crease between her brows.

“How can you say it’s for the best? That woman was cruel to you.”

She shrugged.

“Sometimes she was harsh. Sometimes she was kind. I don’t know.”

She set the knife aside. She wiped her hands with a wet rag, turned them over. They were still stained pink with pigs’ blood, red caked in the nailbeds.

“All I know is that she never was able to make me into the lady she wanted to be, that my father wanted me to be. Now she’s a lady, and she has my father. They have each other. It’s perfect, isn’t it?”

Far from perfect. _The gods must be mad._ He shook his head in frustration.

“It’s not meant to be this way,” he protested.

“But there’s only the way that things are,” she said softly. “At the very least, he’s distracted enough that he hasn’t pressured me into marriage lately. I should be grateful for that.”

That was true enough. But still.

“I just don’t know how you stomach it.”

She glanced at the heap of pig skin and bones and entrails, then gave him a brave smile.

“I can stomach quite a lot these days.”

-

Hundreds of guests flooded the garden--lush and green and newly ornamented with a wooden stage. The grass was still wet from the rains, but no matter. Everyone feasted, sang songs and laughed. Lord Selwyn himself wore a careless, unfamiliar sort of mirth as he drank deeply from his cup and enjoyed the company of his guests. Children played games and danced in circles around a pole strung with ribbons. Even the sun tried to peek behind the clouds to catch a glimpse. Yet it was not quite sunny--a muted grey pall lingered over the merry-making, dark clouds looming.

Ser Goodwin stood with arms crossed under the shade of a cherry tree as he observed the scene, secretly hoping that the storm clouds would rush forth and release their burden on Lady Roelle’s efforts. This whole party had been her orchestration, after all--Lord Selwyn would never go through such trouble for his own name day celebration, not even for his fiftieth.

_Yet she is good at hosting parties._

Today she wore her dark brown hair half down and curled, half coiled into a braided crown and jeweled with small rosebuds. Her silk dress was the color of pale butter, the bodice studded in yellow sapphires. The pleated skirts fanned out all around her like a seashell as she sat at her harp on the green, singing a sweet, lifting tune. A crowd gathered round to listen. Lord Selwyn gazed on in adoration.

Only Brienne looked as miserable as Ser Goodwin felt. She sat slumped in her place at the high table, wearing a shapeless linen dress of faded sea-green. Her corn-colored hair fell in it usual course braid down her back. There was a time when she cared more about her presentation as a lady--styled her hair into popular fashions with the help of her handmaidens, wore corsets and padded out a brightly colored bodice to soften her tall and athletic frame. That time and those efforts had passed. Ser Goodwin could not blame her. Now she stared down her cup of water as if enough concentration might transform it into an ocean and wash her away.

He turned his gaze to the stage. The mummers readied for their play, dragging trunks of costumes and positioning painted set pieces. It was expected to be a good show. The band had traveled here from the Disputed Lands--a war-torn country, but one that yielded dazzling art and poetry.

“Most worthy knight!”

He jumped and turned. A man with tattered cape and floppy hat leaned out from behind the tree. His shoes were mismatched, and his eyes twinkled lively. He rendered a flourished bow and tipped his hat. Ser Goodwin saw the plaited hair beneath.

“Copper Tongue?”

He deepened his bow.

“What in gods are you doing here?”

“Mistress Hydda gave me the afternoon off. It isn’t every day the mummers come to Tarth, is it? Especially from one’s own homeland!”

“You’re from the Disputed Lands?”

The singer cringed.

“Don’t call it such! We natives still remember our home by the name of Tegeleni. It means--”

“Land of Music?”

Copper Tongue’s eyes popped, his goofy smile widening. He sang out in approval.

“You are schooled in Valyrian, Ser Knight!”

“I’ve fought in places where I had to know the basics. I’m not a complete simpleton,” Ser Goodwin said. “Though sometimes I wonder.”

His gaze drifted back to the green. Lady Roelle had just finished singing her sweet song. The crowd ahh’ed and clapped. She curtsied gracefully, pale skirts waving and curling in the breeze. Lord Selwyn smiled and leaned down to kiss her.

Ser Goodwin recoiled.

“What is it about her that entrances him so?”

Copper Tongue did not reply. He only stared at Roelle with glassy eyes, lips moving soundlessly.

“What are you doing?”

“Remembering…remembering.” The singer surfaced from his reverie. “Goodly Knight--where I am from, there was tell of an ancient book of songs. Songs of Influence. Only one with a pure and true voice can sing them well.”

Did the singer mean to say that Roelle was casting a spell with her songs? Ser Goodwin scoffed. It sounded like the utter drivel of small folk. Yet he wondered.

“What happened to the book?”

“One cannot say,” Copper Tongue replied, eyes darkening. “My homeland has been so ravaged by so many noble families over the centuries, we lost all our treasures.” He held his breath a moment. “Including those best forgotten.”

Ser Goodwin wanted to ask more, but a bell sounded and a hush fell over the crowd. All heads turned to the stage where a player strode out to the middle.

_"Ladies and gentlemen. We take you to a far-off land, to a kingdom with a goodly king and subjects under the shadow of a dragon...and an even greater evil."_

The audience was enraptured from the start--those in the front row even leaned forward onto the stage with their elbows, cheering and booing characters as deserved. Yet Ser Goodwin thought the story strange. The plot meandered here and there, first following the form of an adventure, then diverging into a morality play.

“Do you not think the evil knight character looks like you?” Copper Tongue whispered.

Unease stir deep within his stomach. Indeed he does. His height, his build--the scar that jagged temple to jaw. And the princess was played by a blonde male youth who bore resemblance to Brienne. The king was tall and robed in blue--obviously Lord Selwyn. The faithful servant woman was dark-haired and donned in yellow. _Roelle._

By the end of the play the dragon had been slain and the evil, conniving knight put to death. The king married his faithful servant woman. What happened to the princess wasn’t mentioned--she seemed to disappear into the greater folds of the plot. Yet at the last line all members the audience wept, lips trembling. A few claps broke the silence, then the crowd burst into uproarious applause.

Ser Goodwin felt a tug at his sleeve. The singer tipped his hat in farewell. “Good luck, Ser Good Knight. I must away, before the evil one lays her eyes on poor Copper Tongue!”

Amidst the cheers, Lord Selwyn rose from his seat and approached the stage, leading Roelle by the hand.

“We thank our players for joining us tonight. It is not only my name day, but a new era for Evenfall. Many of you have waited patiently for the promised announcement.”

 _Here it comes._ He held his breath, promised himself that he would not cause a scene. Not here, not now. _They might announce a betrothal, but there will be no wedding._

“Lady Roelle and I have married.”

The garden gasped, murmurs rising into cheers.

_“But so soon!”_

_“How wonderful!”_

_“At last, a new Lady Tarth!”_

No. _No._

Ser Goodwin shot up from his seat.

“Who were the witnesses?” he demanded.

His voice cut through the crowd, loud and clear. All heads turned toward him.

“Ser Goodwin, you do not keep the cheer,” Roelle said, in a voice sweet and dry as Dornish red. Yet her amber eyes were large and flickered warning. The cords tensed in her graceful neck.

“I want to know the witnesses.”

Lord Selwyn frowned, brow creased with sternness. He stepped downstage and stared at the knight. Silence hung heavy as the darkening clouds overhead.

“Apologies you were not invited, Ser Goodwin,” he said. “You may check the registry at the sept if you are so suspicious.”

“Fortune favored a small wedding.” Roelle stepped forward and linked her silk-sleeved arm through Lord Selwyn’s. “The stars foretold of an individual who bore ill will toward our marriage.”

They stood there at the foot of the stage, grand and serene as sept statues. With Lord Selwyn’s blue robes and silver beard, Lady Roelle’s yellow dress and red rosebuds in her hair--they had all the colors of Tarth between them.

_“Such a handsome couple. It is truly meant to be.”_

_“Why does the master-at-arms protest?”_

_“He looks like the evil knight from the play, does he not?”_

Brienne stood from her seat.

“I’m happy for you both,” she said. “It is wonderful news. Your marriage blesses us all.”

“I’m glad that you find marriage pleasing, Brienne,” the Evenstar replied, then addressed the crowd again. “At long last, I have found a suitable match for my daughter. She will be married to Ser Humfrey Wagstaff on her sixteenth name day.”

The color drained from Brienne’s face.

“What?” she said. “No!”

The people cheered.

_“So there will be a proper wedding at Evenfall after all!”_

_“Such joyous news!”_

“Humfrey Wagstaff is an old and foolish goat—“ Ser Goodwin protested, but the crowd’s noise drowned him out.

“I will not marry him!” Brienne shouted above it all. “You cannot force it on me!”

The people turned toward the stage for the Evenstar’s reply, drinking in the drama of the scene.

“Your negligence of duty has gone on long enough,” Lord Selwyn said, his voice hard as steel. “If you do not accept the match, then I will shut you out with neither land nor title.”

The crowd murmured grim tones, but many nodded their assent.

_“Reasonable terms for his only daughter.”_

_“The Evenstar is firm but fair.”_

How could he do this to her? In public, no less? Ser Goodwin searched Lord Selwyn’s face for an answer. His blue eyes had a peculiar glaze to them, the pupils dull and lightless.

“You would disown me?” Brienne said in disbelief.

Lord Selwyn drew in a deep breath. He opened his mouth to answer--but no words came out. He stood there slack-jawed as a fish, an actor who had forgotten his lines. His silver hair lifted in the breeze. Elsewise he was frozen. Roelle frowned. She raised her chin to whisper in his ear.

“Not if you do my bidding,” he said abruptly.

But Ser Goodwin had caught the lapse. In that moment, he knew not how nor why, but he knew. _He is under her spell._ The spell of a murderess, a liar. A witch. Something snapped inside him then, and the knight pushed through the crowd and leapt onto the stage.

“It’s not his bidding at all,” he growled, pulling his dagger and lunging for Roelle. The audience gasped. Roelle uttered something and Lord Selwyn stepped in front of his lady, disarming the knight and throwing him down with such strength that the knight tumbled off the stage.

“Father, no!” Brienne cried.

Ladies screamed, babes wailed and the crowd parted, and Ser Goodwin thudded hard to the ground.

“How dare you attempt violence on your new Lady Tarth,” the Evenstar said, glaring down at him. “Especially when she is with child.”

_With child?_

The crowd circled tightly around him, a mean and hungry look in all their faces.

_“He is the evil knight, truly!”_

_“He means ill will!”_

_“Just as the stars foretold!”_

“Guards! Take him away!” Roelle commanded.

“Run, Ser Goodwin!” Brienne cried. “Get out, now!”

He tried to escape, tried to resist--but the crowd held him down. Moments later, armored men descended on him. _I once led these men._ Again, he tried to resist. A steeled gauntlet crashed into his skull, sending him reeling into darkness.

-

He awoke in the dungeons, body aching and wrists shackled to the wall. He coughed. It smelled of death down here, things dank and rotten--and it was black as the backs of his eyes. A flame appeared in the darkness, the bearer’s wet steps echoing coldly down the stairwell. A woman’s shape grew larger, nearer. She stood before him, her face incandescent red in the torchlight. Fire flickered in her amber eyes.

“I was hoping we could put our differences aside, Ser Goodwin,” Roelle said. “After your display this afternoon, I see that is no longer possible.”

“I wish to speak to Lord Selwyn. Alone.”

“He has nothing to say to you that I cannot say for him.”

“What have you done to him?”

She sighed and clucked her tongue.

“Always so suspicious and full of outbursts. It’s no wonder you’re in the place that you are. But I am merciful. I will forgive you if you make a public apology, and swear allegiance to me. You may retain your post. I’ll even give you back your old chamber.”

He hawked back, spat at her. She hissed.

“Over my dead body,” he rasped.

Unceremoniously, she wiped the spittle from her cheek. Her eyes burned fiercer.

“As you wish.”

So she left him there in the darkness, smoke trailing behind her.

He leaned his head back against the wall, listened to water drip. It dripped faster, heavier. Though he was far below ground, he could still hear thunder. _The storm has returned._ He drifted in and out of sleep, awakened by rain and rats gnawing at his boots.

A clatter startled him. _Someone is here._ His eyes had adjusted well enough to see its shape was crawling out of the floor, huge and slicked in grime. It was coming straight for him.

“Brienne!”

He could just barely see her broad features, her long braid.

“I’m sorry it took me this long,” Brienne said, picking at his shackles with a thin metal object. “We had to redig the tunnel.”

“The tunnel?”

“Turnip and a few of the squires knew about a secret escape route from the dungeons. It turns you out into a cove. There is a skiff waiting there to take you away from Tarth. I’ve arranged it all.”

He held his breath a moment, taking it in. The storm still raged.

“I am a prisoner,” he said. “There’s not a sailor on Tarth who would dare cross the Evenstar in such a way, even if he could handle the storm.”

“Not on Tarth there isn’t. But Ser Davos Seaworth can and will.”

“Davos?” he whispered.

“You always talked of him as your old friend. You said he owed you a favor. So I sent him a raven...”

Ser Goodwin had to smile. It was true.

“Come, there’s no time to waste!” she said. “The tide is rising with the storm. The cove will flood.”

They wormed their way through the narrow passage as it slowly widened. They fell into a pool of cold water, swimming fiercely for the light. At the mouth of the cove was a skiff and Ser Davos Seaworth, squinting in the whipping rain. He held hull to rock as Goodwin clambered in and Brienne followed.

“No,” Ser Goodwin told her. “You must stay here.”

“I can’t!” Brienne protested.

“You must. Don’t abandon your father.”

“But he has abandoned me.”

“No, he hasn’t. It’s her. She’s placed some spell on him.”

“I don’t know.”

Brienne was wounded and not eager to forgive. Ser Goodwin could not let her come with him, but knew better than to think she would linger at Evenfall.

“You need more training,” he pressed.

“But from whom?”

“Someone far more skilled than I. Go and seek her out.”

He held her gaze, and saw a glimmer of recognition in her eyes. The waves swelled and thrusted their force, pooling higher and higher.

“We must go now, Goodwin!” Davos said.

Brienne helped push the bark from the rock, and scaled the side of the cove back to the trail that led to the cliffs. But she was not headed back for Evenfall. He watched until her figure disappeared around the side of the rock. The Isle of Tarth slipped from sight and the tempest eased.

“You’ll need to fill me in, old friend,” Davos said gruffly. He looped the mainsheet around his finger stumps and pulled it in tight. “All I knew was that you were in trouble. Now there’s talk of spells?”

“I don’t know for certain,” Ser Goodwin said. “But I intend to find out. Always be wary of witchcraft, Davos.”

-

Brienne

-

She struggled north through the blurring hell of wind and rain. Her head was in a fog, her heart heavy as lead. But she would not turn back to Evenfall. Not back to what was waiting for her.

Roelle, with her words sharp as a whetted knives. _“You must marry, for your own sake. Do you know what it is to be a woman without a title?”_

Her father, just a husk of what he once was. _Or perhaps he is his true self now._

The rain came down harder, cold and heavy. It washed her of most the muck from the tunnel passage. But the journey was long. Brienne had sores swelling on the soles of her feet--they chafed and opened inside her soaked boots with every step. Still, she was thankful for the pain--it kept her from thinking.

She reached the chalky, pock-marked cliffs of the northern coast by break of day, limping and soaked to the bone. By some miracle she found Sunyi’s cave with the sewn rabbit pelts for bedding, the spears and charcoal scars on the walls. The cloaked woman was out. So Brienne curled up shivering next to the cold fire pit, soon falling into a deep and dreamless sleep.

-

A warm wetness on her cheek stirred her awake. A black nose came into focus. The three-legged dog licked her again, wagging his tail.

She sat straight up, and found herself clean, dry and naked. Quickly, she closed the rabbit skins around her body. The blanket was too small for someone her size. Her leathers and small clothes dried by the crackling fire.

On the other side of the fire sat Sunyi Qin, watching her. The woman sat cross-legged, her small hands gripping the long spear in her lap. Her hood was down, revealing the silver-black hair and scarred face. One eye was a drooping red socket but Brienne felt that it watched her as well as the good eye, liquid black and focused.

“You saved me at the quarry,” Brienne started awkwardly. “I never thanked you…”

Her voice trailed off. There was only one thing she had come for.

“Will you teach me?”

The woman stared at her. Flames licked the silence. She shook her head no.

“Please,” Brienne said. “I have no where else to go, and I have no one--truly. My own father has disowned me.”

Sunyi closed her eye and took in a slow, deep breath. A few minutes passed. Hop whimpered and curled up next to Brienne in the crook of her hip. The woman opened her eye, lifted the spear and threw it.

Brienne caught it clumsily. The tip was blood-red and blunted from Sunyi’s last kill, whatever or whoever that was.

“You want me to sharpen it?”

Sunyi nodded.

“Now?”

Another nod.

Brienne reached over to her pile of things and drew her knife from her belt. At the sound of blade on leather Sunyi snapped forward and swiped the knife from Brienne’s grasp, sending it clattering out of the cave and down the cliffside.

“That was my first knife!” Brienne said.

Sunyi Qin tossed her a black stone. Brienne turned it over in her hands. The rough tool was sharp, thin and flaky, and would not last so well as a knife. Still she set to work sharpening the spear with it while Sunyi watched.

The cloaked woman didn’t speak, but Brienne read words in her shining eye.

_If you want to learn from me, you will learn the harder way._

-

Roelle

-

She stood at the council chamber window, peering out into the raging storm. It had not eased in six months. And still no sighting of Ser Goodwin or Brienne. Their disappearance was shrouded in mystery; they must have fled the isle entirely. So much the better, she thought as she closed the shutters. She had Lord Selwyn all to herself.

Yet he was not himself.

He sat by the hearth, staring vacantly into the flames. At first, her song had improved him. He was emboldened, less unsure. But then there was the lapse on his name day. He retreated into himself then, speaking only when Roelle gave him words, only moving when she told him to do so. Even his appearance had changed--his eyes were lightless, like dark sores sunken into a greyed and hollowed face.

Maester Osmynd waved his withered hand in front of him.

“Such an illness I have never known,” he said. “He is not blind. But he does not see.”

“Of course he sees,” she said impatiently, crossing the room. She knelt to whisper in her husband’s ear. “Go on my lord--tell Maester Osmynd that you see his hand well enough.”

“I see your hand well enough.”

Osmynd flinched.

“You see?” she said. “He only needs for my help.”

The maester regarded her warily.

“You are too far along to busy yourself with the weight of rule.”

She placed her hand on her swollen belly, then glanced at the war table with its carving of Westeros. It was true.  Ruling was harder than she ever thought it would be.  The people demanded things all the time, came to Evenfall with their worries--like small children with scrapes and bruises, wanting sweets and kisses. The dark spell of the storm had created even more problems, more demands than she could handle. Aside from all that, there was politics. Storm’s End, King’s Landing--noble houses from all the Seven Kingdoms. Trade with Essos was its own nightmarish beast altogether. She had imagined that Lord Selwyn would handle all of this as he always had, with her by his side. But now she was doing it, with him as her puppet. And she had no choice.

“I know what I am capable of. I shall attend Lord Selwyn at every meeting and event which requires his presence.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Will that be all?” she asked.

“Yes, my lady,” he said, then paused. He fidgeted with his brown robes. “There is one more thing, my lady. I hesitate to inform you because it is of such little consequence, but you mentioned you like to be kept abreast of the people’s whims and inclinations, the goings-ons of the isle--”

“Out with it, Osmynd.”

“There is a witch in the woods.”

She sputtered a laugh.

“Witches are common as house spiders. Especially on an isle as bloody superstitious as this one. Of what consequence is this news?”

“I would not mention it to you, my lady, except that she has developed quite a devout following.”

“And what type of witch is she? A healer? A riddler?”

“A soothsayer. She says that a great darkness has come over Tarth. That the isle will sink into the sea if the darkness reigns much longer.”

A coldness gripped her, deep within her breast. She shuddered, shook it away. “Soothsayers are nothing but riddlers who prey on fear.”

The maester remained silent. She studied him. The sliver of white hair around his head grew thinner, his bald crown liver-spotted. Yet there was something in the man’s eyes that she did not trust.

“Be careful, Maester Osmynd,” she whispered.

_You are old, and can be replaced._

He bowed his head meekly, and left. Now she was alone. Even with Lord Selwyn in the room she was alone. She went to the hearth and knelt beside him, taking his large hands in hers.

“Don’t leave me. Come back.”

His eyes stayed dull.

_I loved him once._

Did she still? Did she ever?

She tensed her jaw, erasing the thought and holding his hands more tightly.

“Say something of your own accord--anything. Tell me what you need. I cannot rule this isle alone.”

His dry lips parted slightly.

“Where is Brienne?” he asked. His voice was weak and course, as though his throat were filled with sand.

“Surely she will come back by her sixteenth name day,” Roelle said. “It is her own wedding, remember? She is promised to Ser Humfrey Wagstaff.”

The old knight was sixty-five, not even in possession of any lands. No matter. He did not make such demands as wanting a portion of Tarth’s marble trade profits, and it was no longer important to marry Brienne into highborn families that would agree to let an offspring carry the Tarth name. It was a good arrangement. Better to keep it until Brienne’s name day, assuming her return, than to break it off assuming she would not return. Yet Roelle secretly hoped she would not return. She needed Lord Selwyn to herself. _Even in this way._

“We will have a child of our own soon. You remember that, don’t you?”

“Yes,” he said, almost too softly. “I remember.”

-

One blessed day, the storm eased. It was that day Roelle felt the first pangs of labor.

The chamber was prepared with all the necessary comforts, and her handmaidens plumped pillows while the midwife prepared hot water, laid out linens and scissors.

_“Such a good omen to have a child on a sunny day, my lady--and after all this rain!”_

_“The birth will surely go easy for you.”_

She prayed as much. She was not so young as before.

Windows were thrown open to let in the golden warmth, but sunlight gave her no relief. If anything, it was an annoyance. She squeezed her eyes to shut it out, straining and gritting her teeth, tearing the sheets with her fingers. Just when she thought the pain would blind her, Roelle heard the babe’s healthy cry. She opened her eyes and outstretched her weary arms.

The midwife swaddled the child, peering into the bundle with a curious expression.

“What is it?”

“It is...a beautiful baby boy,” the midwife replied with a forced smile. She laid the bundle into Roelle’s arms.

Half the child’s face was red. Not the flushed cherry red of new births, but the deep purplish red of congealed blood. His features were contorted, raised and puckered in strange places.

“What is wrong with him?”

“Difficult to say--it might be a type of birthmark. But he is otherwise healthy, my lady.”

 _A birthmark?_ This was a deformity. Roelle traced a finger over the place where skin bunched, thick and lumpy like cauliflower. The more she stared, the worse it was. She closed her eyes. Tears streamed down her cheek.

“Do not despair, my lady. Such children remind us to look beneath the surface to the beauty that lies within--they are gifts from the gods.”

“Are you a septa?” Roelle snapped.

“No, my lady.”

“Then don’t talk to me about gods. Leave me with my child.”

“Would you like me to summon Lord Tarth?”

“No.”

The midwife left. Roelle peered again into the babe’s ruined face.

All she had ever wanted was to raise a beloved child. A highborn child of her own, who would have everything that she could not. How could that be, when this child would be condemned for his hideousness? He would be subjected to ridicule, whispered about as a curse on this gods-forsaken isle where any witch that wandered into the woods was revered as a prophet.

Her first child had been a bastard born with pox. The maesters had never seen the like of it, and attributed it to inbreeding. Now she wondered. Was it the spell of the song? Was there wickedness in it?

The babe waved his hands and reached for her breast, wanting the milk within. Roelle gave him a pillow instead. She pressed it over his tiny nose and open mouth.

“I am sorry,” she wept.

When the midwife came back to light the hearth, she stopped still to see the child limp in her arms.

“The gods did not intend his gentle soul for this world,” Roelle said.

Sleep did not come to her. Every blink was a tiny dream of screams and wails and blood. She tried to keep her eyes open, but tears stung hotly until she shut them tight again. And then there were other images--visions of witches in the woods, swirling black storms. Lord Selwyn withering thin until he was just skin stretched over a bag of bones.

Roelle stumbled from bed, found her book. She lit the hearth, lifted the book to hurl it into the fire. She wanted to watch the parchment curl, hear it crinkle in the flames. But she could not. She could only hold it close to her breasts, tightly as a mother with her babe.

“I will not go mad,” she whispered, over and again. “I will not go mad.”

_I will not go mad._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've made some of the character choices I have for Selwyn because with the canon information we have, it seems he really struggled with how to bring up Brienne. All the betrothals, each worse than the last. And Ser Humfrey Wagstaff (coming up next chap) is just an insult and makes no sense whatsoever. The only way I can approach that betrothal and still *like* Selwyn (which I do) is by putting him under a spell. And that person who puts him under a spell is someone who values tradition and beauty above all else, despite how cruel and hypocritical she can be...kind of like westerosi expectations/society. So I hope that clarifies some things.
> 
> Also I'm well aware that Brienne and Davos are not really on friendly terms in the show. They probably wouldn't be on friendly terms in the books, either, if they had encounters--but that's all due to sides they were sworn to after the events of this chapter. I really like having Goodwin and Davos as friends because of character similarities, so this plot device worked. 
> 
> Thanks again for reading! Y'all are the best.


	17. The Witch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne finds out more about Sunyi's past, and begins to unravel the mysteries at Evenfall.
> 
> Ser Humfrey Wagstaff smackdown, get hype.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter tormented me so.

-

Brienne

-

_Whish. Whish._

The ocean sighed, salting the air and crashing on the cliffs. Wind moaned over the open mouths in the rock’s face. Gulls cried their fishing songs in the bookend hours of dawn and sunset, and the fire spat and crackled by night. Brienne drank in all these sounds like fresh water.

A wordless year had passed, then half of another. The three-legged dog Hop had more to say with his barks and grunts than his owner did. Over time Brienne learned to understand Sunyi Qin by certain looks and silences--yet there was so much she would never know. Why she came to Tarth. How she lost her eye.

_Whish. Whish._

The ocean reminded her that the past didn’t matter. It washed up and washed away like shells from the sands.

They lay low during the day, went out at night in black cloaks with the dog ambling after. Sometimes the three of them climbed down to fish in low tide and gather things washed ashore into the driftwood graveyard, the dry wood pale as bones in the moonlight. Whatever they needed turned up here. Boots, tin, glass bottles. Sunyi showed Brienne what wood made good spears, how to carve them smooth and straight. Other times, when the moon was not so bright, they climbed up onto the cliffs and hunted for rabbits and squirrels. Sunyi taught her to walk toe to heel, to make each movement sharp and right.

Between the nights on land and shore there were days in the cave spent drying meats, distilling sea water, patching clothes, and cleaning.

Sunyi spent more time cleaning than anything else--the cave was always swept tidy, the rabbit pelt beds brushed and oiled. Most of all, she ensured she was clean herself, paying particular attention to her feet. Socks were washed and dried every day, heels and toes scrubbed with pumice. She demanded the same of Brienne. Once Brienne cut her foot on some metal while playing fetch with Hop, and neglected to clean the gash right away--it soon swelled red, and she fell feverish. Sunyi tended to her for days with boiling water and oils, wrapping the foot in kelp. From then on, she made Brienne check her feet in front of her after every trip from the shore. The woman watched her carefully with her liquid black eye. Her other eye was an open red sore that she tended to nightly, digging out the sand and dousing it with fresh water.

“It would go easier for you if you wore a patch,” Brienne suggested one night.

Sunyi gave her a sullen look. _No patch._

“A glass eye, then--that would be better. There are glassworkers at Evenfall--”

But Brienne stopped speaking when she remembered that she was not going back to Evenfall.

The days went on. Finally, Sunyi deemed her ready to fight. Brienne soon found that their duels were entirely different from the training environment she had known. The sparring yard at Evenfall was loud with the clanging of armor and clashing of swords, always beginning with two opponents on equal footing. Not so with Sunyi. She started on Brienne in darkness with her favorite weapons--surprise, lightness, and silence. Brienne always lost, and was never able to spring a surprise attack of her own. Perhaps she was too big, too clumsy; Sunyi was more than a foot shorter and half her weight, yet knew how to use these qualities to her advantage. She would knock Brienne to the ground, sore and senseless, then retire to her cave. Despite her exhaustion, Brienne would continue to practice--walking softly, jumping on rabbits and squirrels until grey dawn.

One full moon night, they gathered seaweed down by the coves. Brienne combed a particularly thick weed through with her fingers. It was tangled around a rope which knotted tightly around a large rock the size of her head. Once, it might have been a makeshift anchor for a skiff.

Sunyi faced away from her, into the wind towards the current--putting her senses at a disadvantage. Brienne coiled the rope, swung back and sent the rock hurling. Sunyi turned, but too late--the rock came down and the thick, slimy weed fell heavy across her body. She stumbled. Brienne lunged forward, pulling the small YiTish warrior by the hood of her cloak and slamming her against rocks. She pinned the woman’s arms behind her back. Sunyi was strong, but Brienne had the advantage.

“Yield!”

A senseless demand for a mute. Yet it was instinctive in this moment of triumph. The woman coughed out saltwater and bits of seaweed. Her one eye looked up widely at Brienne as she took in a thick and ragged breath.

“A true warrior never yields,” Sunyi said.

Seven krakens could have come out of the water at that moment--they would not have startled Brienne as much. Her grip weakened, her mouth dropped. Sunyi spun round and kicked Brienne hard in the stomach. Brienne doubled over. Sunyi took a fistful of hair and dunked her head into the water, holding her under just long enough for the pressure to build and salt water to enter her lungs. The woman yanked her back out.

“Surprise still takes you too easy,” she said coarsely, and released her grip. Brienne fell gasping and coughing on the rocks.

They dried their clothes by the fire in silence. Sunyi scrubbed her toes vigorously, cleaned a gash on her shoulder. Brienne watched her, unsure what to say--if anything.

“You wonder why I did not speak before,” Sunyi said. “Do you not?”

The woman had a low voice for her size, though somewhat leaden from years of disuse. A heavy accent fringed her words with a sort of smoky thickness that reminded Brienne of charcoal and licorice spice.

“It was a vow of silence.”

“A vow to whom?”

Sunyi did not answer this, but set her pumice stone aside. “You will not stay here, Brienne. You will go back, to your father.”

“But I can’t!” she said. “I told you before--my father means to disown me.”

“You would believe that?”

The fire crackled between them. If Sunyi thought she should go back after all this time--she was wrong.

“I’ll find a cave of my own,” Brienne persisted. “I’m better out here, like you.”

“No. You don’t want to be like me,” Sunyi said. She poked a piece of driftwood in the fire. Flames licked upward, and hot ashes scattered. The woman sat back and exhaled deeply.

“I would tell you a story. When you wish to stay after you hear it, then you may.”

Brienne scowled and hugged her knees tightly to her chest. She doubted Sunyi had any story to change her mind. She stole a glance. Sunyi’s face flickered and glowed in the firelight, her good eye staring into the flames.

“Mine is an ancient line of warriors. Qin is a name known far and wide throughout Yi-Ti. I was leader of the Emperor’s guard. My son was first guardsman.”

“Your son?”

Brienne had never even considered that Sunyi might have a family of her own--that she was both a warrior and a mother.

“You remind me of him sometimes,” Sunyi said with a smile. “Stubborn. We were proud to serve our Emperor, a kind man and a fair ruler. One day, he died. The imperial robes passed to his brother--an evil, twisted man. He demanded sacrifices of peasant children to the gods every day, saying the practice brings rain or sun or good health and trade. The one thing it brought? Fear. This new emperor fed on fear like sharks feed on blood.”

She paused to drink deep from a skin of water, and cleared her throat. Brienne listened intently.

“My son told me that we could not stand by, that we had to kill the emperor before he killed more innocents. I would not listen. History tells of good emperors, bad emperors--but it is not for the warrior to play divine judge. And I feared for my name. What would it become, if we would be conspirators? But he could endure the murders no longer. One day in the sacrificial chamber when the Emperor’s back was turned, my son lifted his spear. I still remember how it felt when I brought my spear down on his, how he called me coward and I called him traitor. The Emperor laughed in delight, clapped his hands. He circled round us, taunting my son and encouraging me to destroy him. He said if I did it, he would immortalize me as a golden statue in front of his palace. The whole empire would remember me as the greatest warrior in history of Yi Ti. It was then I realized--I hated this man. I could not serve him. I lowered my spear, stepped aside to clear my son’s path.”

“He killed the Emperor?” Brienne said.

“No,” she whispered. “He tried. Before he could, the other guardsmen descended on him and tore him apart--they had heard the Emperor’s words to me, and all desired to be immortalized as golden statues themselves. I watched in horror as they put a hundred holes in him, blood pouring from his chest. I tried to stop it--but they were too many. Once they finished my son, they held me down while the Emperor laughed. ‘You cannot see where your loyalties lie, your sight must be bad,’ he said. He managed to gouge out my one eye before I escaped. His tigers chased me out of the palace and all the way down to the harbor, where I took refuge in the steerage of a merchant vessel. I was delirious with pain. I thought of giving in to death. But no, death is for cowards. I hid in that ship for three months as it sailed west. I ate raw rats, drank my own urine to survive. I had to return home and kill the Emperor, to seek vengeance for my son and the people of my country. But when I arrived at the shores of Tarth, do you know what I heard in the market? ‘The evil Emperor of Yi Ti is finally dead! Ousted by a people’s rebellion!’ A people’s rebellion. Why would it take a people’s rebellion, when it would take just one person? How many more sons and daughters were killed? Would that I had done it. Would that I had trusted my son and his instincts which were better than mine. I said these things over and again, dawn to dusk. And then I stopped saying anything, because I could no longer stand the sound of my own voice.”

Sunyi slumped, drained and out of breath. Brienne’s throat clenched tight with sorrow.

“You cannot hide in the caves forever,” Sunyi said. “You are too young. Go back to your castle. Make amends with your father.”

“Will you come with me?”

Sunyi shook her head.

“There is no place for me but here. This is where I belong.”

“But how can I go back alone, and now?” Brienne pleaded. “It is nearly my sixteenth name day. I must be married.”

The woman frowned.

“Who says you must? You are the one who says the words before that holy altar. You can choose not to say them.”

“What about my betrothed?” Brienne said. “What would he do if I refused him?”

Sunyi smiled. She leaned in.

“Dear child. You need not fear any man.”

-

Brienne left the northern cliffs before first light, bought a horse from a man along the path. He seemed not to recognize her. Brienne was relieved for it. Despite all the care taken in cleaning and mending, she had still been living in a cave for a year and looked it; her leathers were rough and patched, her long black cloak greyed by salt.

Trees rose up all around her. They thickened as she rode into the cool and shadowed wood. Only a few birds tittered; she saw no one else along the path winding past the village sept. _Strange._ The holy place was abandoned and overgrown with weeds. Brienne frowned, but did not linger. She made for Hydda’s Inn--she would receive a warm welcome there, have a cup of hot broth. Perhaps Ser Goodwin was back and waiting for her. When she reached the small cottage inn, she saw that its stack was smokeless, the door pushed wide open. She dismounted her horse and rushed inside.

Empty. Food left on plates. Stools away from tables.

“Hydda? Ser Goodwin?”

She went upstairs to the guest rooms, opening each door.

“Copper Tongue? Anyone?”

She was about to give up when she spied bottles through the door of the master bedroom. Brienne cracked it open, head low so as not to hit the ceiling. A lump breathed under the covers. She walked slowly towards it, took her spear and prodded it on the rump. It stirred violently.

“What the devil!”

A drunkard in soiled nightclothes rolled out from the covers, grabbed a broken bottle and pointed it towards her. He dropped it when he saw her spear, held his hands up and backed into the corner.

Brienne’s eyes widened at the sight of him. He had a shiny bald head and squashed face.

“Septon Forsyth?”

She had known him since she was a small girl. He had officiated her first betrothal, read her chapters from the Seven-Pointed Star. He now squinted up at her through pink-rimmed eyes.

“Lady Brienne? Is that you?” His speech was slurred and thick.

She felt embarrassed for him, and almost wished he had not recognized her. It was uncomfortable to pity a man of such authority.

“I’m to marry you to your husband tomorrow--”

“Nevermind that,” she said. “What has happened to this inn? Where is Hydda? Where is everyone?”

“Gone. All gone. With the witch.”

“What witch?”

“The _witch!_ Have you been living under a rock, child?”

Brienne blinked, considering.

“Well…”

“The isle fell into misrule. Storms flooded the villages, crops failed, trade faltered. I told them to pray as we always have, but then she came. The witch. Talking of curses and nonsense, and of course they believed her.”

He reached for a bottle, drained one last resilient drop. He heaved a sigh.

“Always a witch, isn’t it? Haven’t I tried to keep this bloody isle on the straight and narrow all these years, and what thanks do I--”

“Has Ser Goodwin returned?”

His countenance changed. For a moment, he looked almost sober.

“Oh my dear. You have not heard?”

“Heard what?”

“Ser Goodwin--he perished on the waves.”

The news washed over her.

“No.”

The drunk septon sat cross-legged cradling his empty bottle. He gazed on her with deep pity. A coldness gripped her heart. She sat down on the bed, head in her hands.

“No, no.”

She whispered it over and again. It was the only word she knew. And then she said nothing at all.

_Roelle has done this._

“It’s her,” Brienne whispered. “He was right, she’s behind all of it.”

“Of course I’m right!” the septon said, mistaking her meaning. “Witches will be the death of all that’s holy!”

The isle fallen into misrule. Her father would never allow it. _Father._ He was far from himself the last she saw him--what was he now, over a year later? What had Roelle turned him into?

There was no more time to waste. She rose from the bed and grabbed her spear.

“I am still to marry you to Ser Humfrey tomorrow--” he called.

But Brienne was gone.

-

The Witch

-

The mob marched out over the fields, torches blazing. A thousand kept their company of townspeople, sailors, farmers, even miners--and moving together as one, singing and chanting all the way to Evenfall.

The witch halted them outside the gates. She lifted an arm to silence their song, then looked way up. The battlements were lined with armored knights, their arrows drawn tightly.

“Show yourself!” a knight commanded.

“Show myself?” The old woman laughed a deep and throaty cackle. “All that costs money, boys. And that’s not what I came for.”

All that could be seen of the witch’s face was a long, warted nose protruding from the rags and draped hood. She slumped half over, leaning into her gnarled and knotted walking stick.

_“The witch wishes to speak with the Evenstar!”_

_“We will not leave until she sees his lordship!”_

_“Open the gates!”_

The inner door lifted. A lady approached the portcullis. She stood at a safe distance--but the old woman saw her amber eyes burning hot as flames, glaring through the grille.

“I regret that my husband is not well enough to meet you. What do you want?” Roelle demanded.

“It’s not what _I_ want. It’s what _you_ want.”

The old woman reached into her cloak and brought out three boxes--one of gold, one of silver, and one of lead. The lady stared at them.

“Yes,” the old woman said. “It’s your favorite story--isn’t it, Roelle of House Caron? You read about it in a very old, very special book, didn’t you?”

Her eyes widened, filled with fear.

“How do you know these things?”

“I know lots of things. I know how to help you. How to lift your curse.”

The old woman extended the lead box through the gate. Roelle slowly reached for it with a shaking hand.

The old woman jerked it away.

“First you must give before you receive,” she snapped.

“What do want?”

“Your book.”

The lady’s eyes narrowed. She stepped sharply from the portcullis.

“No,” she said. “No. You’re a fraud. A fraud leading fools. Close the gates!”

She left, skirts swirling. A maester took her place.

“You heard Lady Roelle,” he said wearily. “Take these people away and--”

The maester stopped and studied the old woman curiously. The wind had riffled the hood to reveal her face--a scar jagged temple to jaw, and eyes flashed grey like sharpened steel.

-

Brienne

-

She rode out the forest, over the fields. Evenfall Hall loomed near. The castle looked just as it did when she left, its silvery towers rising tall against the sky. Yet something lay on the horizon. A crowd of hundreds, perhaps a thousand gathered on the south cliffs, some hundred yards from the outer walls. They had erected rough tents, had small fires burning with smoke curling black ribbons into the sky. So the septon’s tale was true. Was there a witch as well? What was their purpose? Brienne debated whether to ride into their camp to seek answers, but decided against it. _I must see my father first._

Knights hung nocked arrows over the wall as she approached the portcullis.

“Who goes there?” called a young knight. “State your name and purpose.”

He was firm of speech, yet there was a genuineness in him that Brienne recognized. She squinted. He was shorter than the others, and had blonde curls peeking out from his helm.

“Turnip?”

He started.

“Brienne! Is that really you?”

The gates opened for her, and Turnip came clanging down to greet her. He was eighteen and a knight, like many other of the squires Brienne had once trained with. They all stood before her now and removed their helms, staring at her with mouths agape as if she were a ghost.

“It’s you,” Turnip said. “ You really are back! We thought you were forever lost, like Ser Goodwin.”

“Should we not inform Lady Tarth before allowing her in any further?” Alfyn asked. He still wore a perpetual sneer--but as a man, it made him look more toadish than fierce.

“Brienne is heir of Evenfall,” Will said sharply. “She needs no permission to enter her own castle.”

“Lord Selwyn said he would disown her after her sixteenth name day if she didn’t marry--”

“And so it is my sixteenth name day, and I am here,” Brienne said, holding Alfyn’s gaze until he blinked and scowled away.

She turned to the others. “How is my father?”

They exchanged glances.

“Changed. But you are here, Lady Brienne. If you cannot help him, no one can.”

She gathered herself with a deep breath.

“Go back to your stations,” she said. “Do not let on that I am here.”

She crossed through the courtyard and entered the great hall through the small door, clinging quiet to the shadows. Two voices echoed bitterly down the length of the hall.

“What is it you want, Ser Humfrey? Money?” Lady Roelle said, pacing the floor. She looked different. Older. Her dark hair was streaked with grey, the age lines in her face carved deeper. The dress she wore was such a dark shade of mustard, it was almost brown.

“I don’t want money,” Ser Humfrey said with rough dismissal. “I want my bride. I was promised the highborn daughter of Lord Selwyn Tarth.”

Brienne gazed past the old knight, then held her breath.

_Father._

His long silver-grey hair had turned stark white. He still wore his sapphire robes, but his face was ashen, and so were his hands--the same color of the stone pillar he stood next to. Indeed, Brienne might have mistaken him for a statue one were it not for his eyes which blinked.

“And as I told you, we have searched high and low for her,” Roelle said. “Haven’t we, Maester Osmynd?”

The maester stood by with his head bowed and hands folded over his brown robes.

“Yes, my lady. Lady Brienne has disappeared.”

The knight scoffed.

“Should a man not know when his betrothed has disappeared from her home? Could have spared me a long and arduous journey across the waves. I am not a young man with time to waste!”

“His lordship has been ill and we are very busy with other matters at home, as you can see--”

“Indeed, I see that well enough!” Ser Humfrey retorted. “And had I been given my bride, I might have forgotten to notice the peculiarities of Tarth; how it bows under misrule, how the port town gossips. How a witch has captured the people’s minds, and how Evenfall positions its forces on the battlements as though prepared for a people’s rebellion! When I return home I shall deliver a full report to Lord Renly on this current state.”

“You shall do no such thing,” Brienne said, emerging from the shadows.

Roelle’s yellow eyes widened, regarding her with astonishment. She softened. A prim smile gently creased her face.

“Ah, Brienne!” she said with cloying sweetness. “You are here.”

She spoke as if Brienne had only been away for a short time, and her return was expected as spring’s first rain.

Brienne went to her father. He gazed through her, like an upright corpse with painted stone eyes. She reached up to touch his face. It felt almost cold.

“What has happened to him?”

“Go on, Maester Osmynd,” Roelle said in her same cloying tone. “Tell her.”

The maester fidgeted with the chains around his neck. He kept his head bowed, unable to meet Brienne in the eye.

“It was your disappearance that spurred this sickness, Lady Brienne,” the maester said. “He fell into a shadow of himself that day you left, and has not emerged since.”

“What?” Brienne said in disbelief.

For a moment, she wanted to believe it--if only to bear the burden of blame herself. But this was not the answer. She knew it. Maester Osmynd raised his old brown eyes to meet hers. They were filled with shame. _He knows he is lying to me._

“Nevermind, all is mended by your much-anticipated return,” Roelle said sweetly. “And especially on your wedding day. It will surely lift the Evenstar’s heart to see his only child married.”

“But I am not his only child--” Brienne started, then stopped. Roelle’s threatening expression told her otherwise. _Something happened to the baby._

“So this is my bride, come at last. Well.”

Brienne turned to face her betrothed. The knight was in his mid-sixties, but his face betrayed his years; skin stretched thin over the bones in his face, giving him a sharp and blue-veined look. His jowls sagged, as if strings were attached to his lip ends and pulled down by a heavy stone. His nose was hawkish, and his spotted head was bald but for the rat-brown wisps that ringed his crown. Yet he wore fine leathers and an air of superiority. With arms crossed he strode over to Brienne, taking in the sight of her with cold calculation. He sniffed.

“She’s broad-hipped at least--will bear plenty of children. Gods know I’ll blow out the candles for the making of them.”

Heat rushed to Brienne’s cheeks. She clenched her jaw.

“And what is this that you’re wearing?” he said. “You look like you’ve been living under a rock. Once we are wed, I expect you to act and dress as a proper woman. I will not have my lady wife cavorting about in man’s mail. On this you shall obey me, lest I be forced to chastise you.”

“As is your right, Ser Humfrey,” Roelle agreed, then leaned to Lord Selwyn. “What say you, my lord?”

She whispered something in his ear. The Evenstar received her words, opened his cracked lips. He spoke in a voice dry as sand.

“Go and put on your wedding gown, Brienne.”

Brienne clenched her fists inside her cloak. She looked from Roelle, to Ser Humfrey, to Lord Selwyn. Even Maester Osmynd belonged to Roelle. Brienne felt she was in a cage, the bars closing tight around her from all sides. _Before I can help my father, I must get rid of Roelle. And before I can get rid of Roelle, I must get rid of Humfrey._

She turned to the knight and mustered her courage.

“I will accept chastisement only from a man who can outfight me. Show that you can best me in a sparring yard--then will I be your wife and do all that you command.”

Roelle’s anger flashed.

“Brienne!“

The knight purpled, his lips peeling back into a yellow-toothed grimace.

“Her challenge is accepted.”

-

Knights and squires readied the sparring yard. Handmaids, servants, and others of the castle huddled in doorways, peeked out casements. Lady Roelle watched with smoldering eyes from the grand archway, Lord Selwyn by her side with his stony gaze fixed forward. Brienne wondered what he saw through those darkened eyes. _I will bring you back, father. I promise._

She turned her thoughts to the duel as she donned her chainmail and armor. Brienne had fought and won against a seasoned knight before; her own master at arms. But that was in the company of her fellow squires, and they had worked together for a year to devise a strategy that would tire and trick him. Now she was on her own.

Ser Myles the Big, master of the armory, lay a selection of blunted weapons before them. Clubs, spears without arrows, tourney swords of different lengths. Humfrey chose a broadsword. Brienne was about to reach for the same, but saw Big Myles’ meaty knuckle fall beside the mace. He’s right. A crude weapon, but one with more dynamic range and the capability for more damage upon a single blow. It required strength to wield a mace, but also quickness, and stamina.

 _“You are quicker than any woman your size has a right to be,”_ Ser Goodwin told her. _“And your stamina is a gift from the gods. Use it to your advantage.”_

The knight took his stance, and she took hers. A horn sounded to commence the fight, and so it began. Humfrey came at her with fearsome blows. Brienne moved out of the way well before any of them fell. They circled. He came at her again--she danced back. After a short time he was breathing hard, shoulders heaving. Even with tourney weapons, fighting was wearisome work and it showed on him. His lips peeled back into a foretelling grimace--Brienne held up her shield to deflect the blow, and then another.

“Are you going to fight?” he snarled. “Or are you just going to bloody keep moving out of the way?”

Her blood rushed, but still she parried back. Sunyi Qin had offered words on their parting, and they echoed in her mind:

_“Conserve your strength, and let them spend theirs--men will always underestimate you. Their pride will make them want to vanquish you quickly, lest it be said that a woman tried them sorely.”_

She drew him in, pulled him back. He wheezed. He stumbled past her, driven by the weight of his broadsword. There were laughs from the crowd.

“You’ll not make a mockery of me--I will teach you to obey me!” he roared, coming at her again.

She jerked up on the mace, and the ball swung into the air. Humfrey’s eyes went round and white. He ducked, but not far enough--the ball smashed into his shoulder plate, knocking him off kilter. He stumbled to a steady but uneven stance. Brienne swung the mace again with a heavy grunt. The blow sank deep into his breastplate, and he fell backward. He stayed down, writhing on the ground. His teeth gritted in pain. Brienne threw done the mace and picked up Humfrey’s sword, pointing the dull edge to his throat.

“Yield,” she commanded. He coughed and winced. “Yield!”

“I...yield,” he said, wheezing.

Brienne lowered her sword.

“Someone find Maester Osmynd,” she said. “This man needs a bed and care for his broken bones--”

She turned to see all eyes on her. They gazed in reverence.

_“Lady Brienne has won!”_

_“She beat him senseless!”_

_“Our heir of Evenfall!”_

“She is not the heir of Evenfall if she does not marry!” Roelle shouted. “Lady Brienne, you are still bound by your betrothal.”

Brienne very much doubted that Ser Humfrey shared the same opinion. The defeated man was almost to be pitied. Two knights dragged him off the green, a hand under each armpit. But they were clumsy and dropped him a few times--eliciting hollers of pain and obscenities, Humfrey’s face pinched and wrinkled as a prune.

“I set the conditions for my marriage, they were accepted by Ser Humfrey,” Brienne said. “I won the fight. Our betrothal is broken.” _Along with his collarbone and a few ribs, most likely._

Murmurs rose into cries, cries into shouts.

_“She is right!”_

_“The betrothal is broken!”_

_“Out with the old knight!”_

Brienne’s heart pumped faster. She looked up to the grand archway in defiance. Roelle’s gaze darted all around. Her hard countenance cooled. Her lips parted. And then, she did something quite curious; she began to sing.

The wind moved in the grass. The ocean whispered in the distance. The melody floated through the air, glorious as the first day of spring. Brienne felt the warmth of sun on her back. She saw light glittering silver on wavelets in the sea, tasted the juice of fresh figs. She closed her eyes and felt herself spiraling down, down towards a velvety blackness that beckoned her to sleep.

To yield.

_A true warrior never yields._

Brienne’s eyes snapped open. Blood rushed to her head.

“No!” she shouted. “Don’t listen to her! It is a spell--a spell cast by song!”

Her desperate words echoed through the yard. No matter--all trained their eyes on Roelle. Each face was painted with the same dreamy visage, whether they were knights, smiths, or handmaidens.

_“It is a beautiful song.”_

_“Sing again!”_

_“Let us hear more.”_

Roelle smiled a wicked little smile.

“The Evenstar should have the last say in its matter. What say you, my lord?”

Brienne watched as Roelle grasped his hand, and tilted up her chin to whisper in his ear. A shiver ran down her spine.

“This afternoon has been toilsome,” Lord Selwyn said in heavy monotone. “Let us all retire to the Great Hall to enjoy meat and mead. And more song.”

“Indeed, my lord,” Roelle said. “Some musical levity is just what we need.”

Lord Selwyn spoke again to dismiss the knights back to their posts. The archways emptied and people trickled into the keep. Only Brienne stood in the abandoned yard, bewildered and ill at ease. She realized she still held the blunted broadsword.

“Did I miss the fight? Who won?”

Brienne turned to see Maester Osmynd, metal chains clinking round his neck as he walked toward her from the courtyard archway. There was a lightness in his step. She should have been relieved to see his warm and friendly face--but he was her friend no longer.

“You should go to the infirmary, Maester Osmynd,” she said wearily. “Ser Humfrey has need of your attentions.”

“Pardon my absence, my lady,” he said. “But I have busied myself this past hour in the gathering outside the castle. I had a small errand to run for the witch.”

Brienne had almost forgotten all about the camp on the cliffs, the rumored witch. She noticed the mud fringing the bottom of the maester’s brown robes. He’s telling the truth.

“What were you doing out there?”

He came closer, gripped the crook of her arm and whispered in her ear.

“Listen to me. There’s a way to end this.”

His eyes were clear. _He is not under her spell._

“I should have done something earlier, much earlier. But there is time. Brienne, you must--”

His words were halted by a deafening shriek. It came from within the keep, and sounded throughout the yard--reverberating off the inner walls, sending birds scattering from their nests. It sounded again, even louder and shriller.

Lady Roelle burst from the keep with Lord Selwyn close behind her, matching one step for her every three.

“Where is it!” she growled at Brienne.

“Where is what?”

Roelle stopped an inch short of her.

“You know well what,” she spat.

Brienne looked to her father. He towered over, glowering down with his stony expression.

“I have no idea what you speak of, I swear it!”

“Is this why you have returned? To steal from me?”

“I have stolen _nothing_ from you!” Brienne shouted, her anger flaming. If anything, it was Roelle who had stolen from her--her father, her home. What more did the woman want? Her fingers gripped tightly round the broadsword’s hilt. _It is a dull blade, but heavy enough._

Yet her muscles stayed. To think something and to do it were two worlds apart. Even if Brienne were to lunge at her, sword in hand--she still had no idea how to undo the damage done to her father. Roelle wielded such control. If she perished, would Lord Selwyn go with her?

“I beg your pardon, my lady,” Maester Osmynd said. “But is it a book you speak of?”

Roelle’s yellow eyes swirled like storms, dark with contempt.

“You?” she rasped.

“Ah yes,” he continued, pleasantly. “A book of songs in an ancient tongue with gilded pages. It was I who took it.”

The lines deepened in her face, the cords tensed thick in her neck. Her voice heightened to a shriek. “What have you done with it!”

The maester’s smile disappeared.

“I gave it to the witch.”

Roelle stood still for what seemed an age. Then the yellow-eyed woman uttered two words, so low they were barely audible.

“Kill him.”

Quick as lightning, Lord Selwyn moved forward and seized the broadsword from Brienne’s grasp. She tried to wrench it back, but his strength was something far more powerful than her own. She could only watch in horror as he hoisted the weapon high overhead. Maester Osmynd closed his eyes. His lips whispered a prayer.

“No!” Brienne cried.

The blunted blade cracked down on the maester’s skull.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Who do you think is going to bring down Roelle? (or WILL she be brought down! lol. do you really think I'm that evil?)
> 
> Next chapter will be a direct continuation of where this one left off.
> 
> Also:
> 
> “Conserve your strength, and let them spend theirs--men will always underestimate you. Their pride will make them want to vanquish you quickly, lest it be said that a woman tried them sorely.”
> 
> \- GRRM gave this line to Ser Goodwin in Brienne's flashbacks, but I give it to Sunyi because the line has always struck me as the sort of thing a woman would tell another woman.


	18. True of Heart With Honor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things come to a head at Evenfall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think you will all like this chapter.

-

Brienne

-

Steel crashed down on bone. Brienne’s insides clenched and coiled. The sickening sound had a fragile wetness to it--like a fresh egg cracking wide open. The old maester’s body crumpled to the ground, brown robes folding all around him. She rushed to catch his head in her shaking hands. Blood rivers flowed thickly from his cloven skull, the skin paling white as his rolled-up eyes.

Lord Selwyn towered over with sword in hand. Brienne dared to meet his gaze, searching his face for any resemblance of the father she once knew. But his eyes were darkened pits in the hollows of his face. If he recognized her at all, he did not show it.

“We march out the castle gate, to the cliffs!” Lady Roelle commanded.

Metal clanged. The lead guardsmen shouted, assembled their company. It was mere minutes since these same knights cheered for Brienne in her defeat of Ser Humfrey, their eyes alight with reverence. Now their eyes had dulled, clouded as the sea beneath grey skies. _They are under Roelle’s spell, just like my father._

Brienne still held the maester’s head in her hands. The warm blood that soaked her leather jerkin was going cold. She blinked away the sting in her eyes and looked up. Roelle’s face had greyed darker. Some strands of hair had turned coarse and thick like black steel wire. She turned and her amber eyes narrowed into a razor-sharp stare that locked on Brienne. The woman studied her contemplatively, as though weighing whether to crush or leave a spider on the wall.

 _I could fight her,_ Brienne thought. _I could bring her down with my bare hands._

But she dared not with Lord Selwyn standing by. He was an overruled shadow of himself--but still her father. _I cannot not fight him._

Roelle’s gaze drifted past Brienne.

“You two knights there! Yes, you--lock up the Evenstar’s daughter, throw her in the dungeons!”

Two pairs of hands clapped down on Brienne’s shoulders. She tensed and writhed, but her own hands were quickly bound in a tight knot. The knights gagged and blindfolded her, and she seized up as she felt a blade’s sharp point dig into her back.

“Move.”

The noise of the yard melted away as Brienne jerked and stumbled away from it, at the mercy of the two knights and their dagger. She could not see much, but knew the world was darkening. The thick smell of rain filled her nostrils. A few drops splashed upon her head. Grass turned to stone beneath her feet, and their steps echoed down a long corridor. The knights stopped her abruptly. She heard three bolts unlock, smelled the rusty iron door as it shrieked open on its hinges. It was cold and damp inside. The stench of mold and death rose up from below like a fog.

A torch lighted. The warm glow filtered through the cotton over her eyes. Her blindfold fell away to reveal Turnip, his boyish face wrenched in an anxious expression. Will ungagged her, dark hair slicked to his forehead. His gaze quivered to the door and back.

“All right,” he said lowly, trying to keep a calm and steady voice. “Now what?”

Brienne blinked, adjusting to the light. The three of them crammed close together. Below, the steep stairwell spiraled down to the dungeons. With great relief she realized they had no intention to lead her down those steps.

“You’re both...yourselves?”

“Who else would we be?” Turnip said. “We were on the wall, lifting the gates for Maester Osmynd to pass back through. He was going on about the witch at the cliffs and how he had to speak to you, but then we heard the horn and came back to the yard and we saw…we saw the maester...”

Turnip’s voice cracked and drifted off at the last word. He swallowed hard and bit his lip.

“The other knights,” Will said. “Something taints their speech, their eyes. It almost seems as if they are under a spell.”

“They are,” Brienne said. “As well as my father.”

The rain had quickened. Droplets now begged their way inside, seeping into the stone wall cracks and dribbling down the dungeon stairwell in a wet and hollow song.

“It’s true, isn’t it?” Turnip whispered. “About Lady Roelle?”

She nodded.

“Tell us what you saw, Brienne. Tell us.”

She lifted a hand to her head. It was pounding, she realized. She took in a deep breath to soothe away the pain.

“It’s more what I heard rather than what I saw. She sang a song. A beautiful song.”

A memory came rushing back. Years ago, by accident, Brienne had found a book of songs in Roelle’s bedchamber. She remembered opening the book, that same golden feeling when she gazed on the illuminated script. How fiercely Roelle slammed the book shut, told her never to touch it again.

“The songs are power--they are poison,” Brienne said. “Maester Osmynd stole the book and gave it to the witch. He was going to tell me something about what I had to do, but then he--then my father...”

She closed her eyes tightly, blotting out the visions that flooded her.

“We must find this witch and stop her,” Will said decisively. “She may do terrible things with the book, even worse than what Roelle has done.”

“But why would Maester Osmynd have given it to her?” Turnip said. “He was wise. Perhaps he knew things about the witch we didn’t. Perhaps she isn’t so bad as we thought and she’s the only one powerful enough destroy the book. And then--”

“And then I must destroy Roelle,” Brienne said quietly. She met the gaze of the two young knights, looked them up and down. Turnip was always much smaller than she was, but Will was almost her equal in height and weight.

“Give me your armor, Will. Quickly.”

-

The Witch

-

Tall and eely columns of smoke rose from the west-facing cliffs. Rough-patched tents sprouted about the camp like mushrooms, and voices floated over the crackling flames. The witch sat on a log by the high-licking fire, its wide pit dug not far from the cliff’s edge. Westward of the cliffs was only sea and sky, the horizon blurred by mist and cloud. Still the ocean made itself known, churning hungrily some three hundred feet below. The witch peered out her cloak hood towards Evenfall Hall. The towers wavered in the simmering haze of smoke and heat. Black and purple clouds marched across the sky like elephants, throwing a blood bruise veil over the land. A fat droplet fell from on high, splashing the tip of the witch’s long warted nose. _It will rain heavily, and soon._

The witch looked back down to the open book in her lap. Its thick pages gleamed golden as midsummer, and flowing script shone bright as moonbeams. Illustrations of winged creatures hovered in the margins--so finely detailed and lifelike, they seemed to fly from the pages with mouths hanging open in mid-song. But the longer the witch stared at the creatures, the more their beauty darkened and twisted. They no longer sang. They were screaming, lifting from the page, teeth bared and yellow eyes full of hatred. The witch slammed the book shut.

Grass rustled, footsteps neared. The witch’s mind cleared. A man knelt down low before her.

“Good One.”

Inside her cloak hood she smiled. _Good One._ The people had styled her such when she first came to Tarth last year.

“The Evenstar and his Lady approach, all guards at hand. What is the bidding of the gods?”

She glanced up. A few more raindrops fell.

“Show courtesy,” the witch said with a small wave of her fingers over her staff. “Let them approach.”

The rain thickened into a deafening chorus. Stinging drops needled the soil and opened up wide mud puddles. Still the large fire blazed at the cliff’s edge. _Good._

The crowd parted, carving a wide path for the marching guardsmen. Boots sucked mud with every step. Swords rattled in scabbards, sapphire capes clung wet to the knights’ armor and mail. Their company split to allow Lord and Lady Tarth to pass through. They were both ahorse, but Lady Roelle rode more forward. Rain trickled down the deeply-carved lines of her face. Wiry grey hair framed her face in loose plaits. She had aged quickly, but was none the weaker for it--her eyes still burned hot like a furnace. _She’s fierce as whetted steel._

The Evenstar rode slightly behind her, tall and wax-like on his black horse. He stared forward with empty, darkened eyes. He had aged even worse than his lady, almost unnaturally so--his hair was thin and white, his face mottled ashen and chalk. _Like corpse flesh._

“Guards!” Roelle commanded sharply. The knights drew their swords, crossed them in twos to keep out the enclosing crowd--a cross-stitch fence of steel on steel.

“Not the most pleasant greeting,” the witch croaked, rising to stand.

“You have something that belongs to me,” Roelle said. “Return it, and there will be no violence.”

“Violence?” the witch said. “Against me, an old woman--and these, your people?”

Several from the crowd cried out in agreement.

_“The Good One has powers!”_

“She can undo the curse of Evenfall!”

Roelle uttered a bleak and airy laugh.

“Then why hasn’t she already?”

The question silenced them. The rain beat louder.

“The answer to your question is simple,” the witch said. She drew the golden book from her ragged folds, held it up for all to see. “To undo the curse, I needed this.”

The witch whirled round, flinging the book into the fire. Roelle cried out, kicked and drove her horse forward. The book flew in a slow and flapping arc, pages yawning open over the flames. With a fearful whinny the animal reared up at the edge of the pit, hurling its rider out of the saddle and into a dragon’s maw of fiery tongues. The flames licked tightly around the woman’s body. She thrashed and cried out, her shape a burning silhouette of orange and black. She screamed louder. The flames climbed higher and so did the scream, grating sharp as a knife’s ragged edge on bone. Just when the witch thought the sky would break from the shrill sound, something changed. The scream smoothened, lingering on a single pitch. It was still loud and piercing, but altogether different--sweet and melodious.

A chill ran down the witch’s spine. _She is not screaming. She is singing._

“Close your ears!” the witch cried out, crouching down to cover her own.

The song quenched fire like water, parting the flames like waves washing back from a rock. The woman with the golden voice walked through, still burning and still singing.

_She will die. She must die._

Roelle stood before the witch all bloody and aflame. Her half-burnt hair looked a nest of charcoal adders. But she held her book close to her breast and sang louder. The flames left her body, rushed to the ground and tore across the grass.

_“No!”_

White hot pain seared up the cloaked knight’s legs. He dropped and howled, struggling out of his rags and rolling on the ground to beat out the raging flame. The hood fell away. The long, warted nose melted. It was only wax, after all.

A cry pierced through the crowd. Hydda pressed against the sword fence, but the guardsmen would not let her through.

“He is _hurt!”_

Ser Goodwin squelched the flames, tore the rags away from his right leg. It smoked and burned, white and pink and raw with skin blackened all around it. He smelled his own skin cook.

“So it all makes sense now,” Roelle laughed, her voice hoarse with smoke. She turned to address the crowd. “Did you have any idea your witch--your Good One--was not only a fraud, but an exiled knight of Evenfall?”

Flames flickered over the faces of the people. They were smoke and rain-smeared, their clothes wet and filthy. They had followed the false witch with devotional fervor. Now every eye narrowed into a slit.

“It was the only way to bring you together against her!” Ser Goodwin shouted and coughed. Smoke filled his lungs, heavy and thick like paste.

Through the murky vapors, the rain, the sting in his eyes--he saw Roelle clearly. _She suffered more of the flames than I did. She should be dead._ Yet she was alive and gruesome. Her skin was laced with burns, red fissures running between the charred and blackened skin.

She took a rod from a wooden heap next to the fire pit and lighted it. The fire hissed and crackled as it caught and blazed high into the air. She turned to address the people.

“If it’s a real witch you want--if it’s magic and power you seek--then kneel to me.”

The crowd murmured, awed and fearful as they looked one to the other. A few moments passed. The first man knelt, then the next. One by one, they all knelt and bowed their heads behind the knights’ steel curtain.

_No. This cannot happen._

“Fuck your golden songs!” Ser Goodwin spat. “They’re dark as your heart--you have no love for your people. You have no love for Lord Selwyn. You have no love for anyone.”

“Love?” she said, advancing on him with torch in hand. He could smell her singed flesh. Strips of skin hung from her arms. “Love doesn’t exist. Only power exists.”

The great fire blazed behind her, casting her form into a shadow. Though the rain was still pelting down, it did not extinguish the torch she bore. The flame burned molten gold--just like her evil eyes.

“Oh how the tables have turned, Ser Goodwin,” she continued. “It used to be that you wore the weapons, and I the rags. Now we have come full circle.”

She lowered the torch to his face. The knight wheezed and winced, inching back from the golden flame--he could barely move for the burns on his legs, the smoke in his lungs. The water washed fiercely on the cliffs behind him. A few inches more, and he could fall and choose his own fate. But that was not knightly. _I have tried. I have tried my best._ He closed his eyes, prepared for the worst.

Flame ripped through the air--but not through his flesh. Roelle cried out in agony. When the knight opened his eyes again, he saw the torch spinning over the cliff. A guardsman had broken from the ranks, knocking the weapon from Roelle’s hands and slicing her neck wide open. Blood poured from her neck as she fell to her knees.

Ser Goodwin squinted. The guardsman was tall, too broad for his ill-fitting armor. A blonde braid fell loose from the helm. Brienne.

“Brienne!” he gasped. “The book, destroy the book!”

The sword came back in a sidelong swing and then forward again to slice through the woman’s midsection and the book she cradled. But before Brienne’s weapon had the chance to complete its arc, a different sword caught the blow--the Evenstar's.  He had come between his daughter and Lady Tarth. Brienne cried out and pressed back--but his strength was something more than her own. He wheeled her around with his parries and strikes, steel singing through the air until Brienne stood with her back to the cliff’s long drop. He brought down his sword again. Brienne’s balance faltered; she stumbled back, heel finding the rough edge near where Ser Goodwin lay wounded and weaponless. The knight rolled over and reached out an arm to stop her from tumbling over. His efforts caught her fall--but her sword slipped from her hand and went careening over. It spiraled down through the air and disappeared into the ravenous churn of water on stone. The Evenstar stepped forward, towering over them both with sword in hand.

Roelle laughed bitterly. Dark blood the color of wine had congealed at the slit in her neck. Black blisters pocked her burnt skin, pink rivers of rain and pus trickling between them. Yet she still held the half-golden, half-burnt book against her breast—tenderly, as if it were a newborn child.

It is all that is keeping her alive.

Ser Goodwin knew he had lost his chance to destroy it. So had Brienne. He saw her glance down to the hellish churn some two hundred feet below. Only death is down there, girl. But in front of her was the shadow of her father, ready to kill upon command. Ser Goodwin looked to his leg. The burnt flesh had sloughed away from ankle to knee, exposing muscles and bone which were a sickly pink. He grimaced. _This time, I cannot help you Brienne._

“Brienne, Brienne,” Roelle said, clicking her tongue. “Your father and I have tried so hard to raise you into a lady. But you fought it every step of the way. Now it seems you’ve run out of room to fight--just like your master at arms. Come, this isn’t how we want to end, is it? I give you one last chance. Surrender now, and I will allow you to leave Tarth with your miserable life intact.”

Do it, Brienne, Ser Goodwin thought. Take her offer--run far away from here, start anew.

“Never,” Brienne said.

Roelle’s lipless mouth twisted into something murderous.

“Then you have chosen death. Kill her!”

Ser Goodwin’s heart stopped. Lord Selwyn raised his sword, the blade slick with rain. Brienne took off her helm and stared up at her father. She closed her eyes and bit her quivering lip.

The clouds moved. The Evenstar’s sword hung high overhead, frozen in the thinning rain. Perhaps it was only the light of evenfall cutting through the mist, but something flickered in the lord’s eyes. Not over them like a reflection, but within them--like a stone that drops into water and casts ripples outward.

“I said kill her!” Roelle shrieked.

The thick blade sliced the air. It came across instead of down. Lord Selwyn’s blue robes swirled as he arched back around to Roelle, her eyes wide with fear. He pulled his sword back then pushed it forward, piercing into the golden book. The blade skewered straight through the woman’s belly and exploded out her back with a burst of blood. The book blackened. Red bubbled out her open mouth, and her amber eyes turned murky. With a roar the Evenstar pulled out the blade and grasped what little hair she had left. She gurgled blood, mouth still moving as he hurled her over the cliff’s edge. Down into the misty nothingness she diminished, arms outstretched and skirts fluttering moth-like in the wind. Her screams floated upward—a pained song of defeat. The screams fell into silence as Roelle’s body hit the water far below. A wave washed over her. Two heartbeats later, the water washed back to lay bare her pink and bloody remains on the rocks.

Lord Selwyn turned his gaze to the blackened book in his hand. It crisped and broke apart. A swirl of ashes floated away on a westerly wind like a flock of small birds. He looked to the sword in his other hand. It wept blood. He opened his fingers, and the weapon fell to the ground.

The crowd stood silent as first snow. Before their very eyes, the Evenstar transformed; his stony countenance softened, and color flooded back to his cheeks. His hair thickened and turned white to silver. His eyes lightened, clear as Tarth’s sapphire waters. Yet a deep sorrow moved within them--so great and so heavy, Ser Goodwin forgot the excruciating pain in his burnt leg.

Lord Selwyn’s gaze fell on Brienne. He parted his lips to say something, closed them again. His knees gave way beneath him. He collapsed, and his daughter rushed to him.

Pain surged up Ser Goodwin’s leg again like hot iron. He grimaced and tilted his head back, too weary to hold it up any longer. The heavens filled his vision. The rain had stopped, and the setting sun strained through a smear of clouds--streaking them light and dark like watered ink. A mass of intense color caught Ser Goodwin’s eye. It hung high in the sky, glimmering bright as stained glass in a holy sept. _A sundog._ The same stuff of rainbows, though not in the form of a perfect arc. Ser Goodwin was never one to believe in such signs and portents—but in this moment, he felt his heart glow. He smiled weakly and whispered the old adage:

_Light and color after heavy rains;_   
_Denotes great healing after many pains._

-

Brienne

-

It felt like waking up from a somber dream--surfacing from a deep darkness to blink and marvel at first light. The sun came out from behind the clouds. The earth firmed solid and sprouted bright new flowers. The people returned to their work in the villages. Still a shadow hovered, casting a wary pall over Brienne’s relief. The dark days were done, but their memory lingered.

She kept careful watch over her father as he returned to himself and regained his strength. He remembered little of what had happened while he was under Roelle’s spell, yet he was long-faced and guilt-stricken. The next few days were a blur of his reparations to the isle, the castle, and matters of diplomacy.

A proper sea burial was prepared for Maester Osmynd. Solemn and heavy-hearted, the people of Tarth crowded onto the rocky sands of the burial spit which jutted out into the sea below Evenfall’s high towers. They lay his body on a nest of woven branches from all variety of trees on Tarth--soldier pine, chestnut and birch among them. Septon Forsyth had recovered after his drunken stupor at the inn; he now presented himself soberly, with hands folded over clean robes. He led the people in prayer for the old maester, addressing the gods in turn and asking for their blessings. When he finished, Lord Selwyn came forward with lighted torch in hand.

“Maester Osmynd kept a watchful eye over Evenfall and Tarth. He paid dearly for his faithful service. Although it was my hand that struck him down--” he swallowed tightly, “--it was not my will. He is with the gods now.”

He held the torch to the pyre. The flame caught. The maester was pushed off into the waves. The Evenstar turned and regarded his people.

“You all know the words of House Tarth. ‘True of heart, with honor.’ I have often puzzled over why the word ‘heart’ came first. Why not honor, which is the purest and noblest of qualities for knights and lords? Yet without heart all is clouded and grey. We can lose our way in these mists. We can become stone.”

He bowed his head. The ocean dulled its roar as if to listen.

“Always be mindful of the songs you sing, the stories you tell your children; they all hold a sort of magic within them which fills our hearts, influences our deeds. That is the spell.”

For a long while, the only sound was water washing on the sands. The people quietly dispersed, pebbles crunching under foot. Brienne went to where her father stood, watching the pyre drift out on the receding tide. The flames dwindled smaller like a candle diminishing into the night.

“A father owes his child so much more than what I’ve given you,” he said. “I’ve made such terrible mistakes. How can you forgive me?”

Brienne flushed at the question.

“Easily. You were not yourself.”

Forgiveness was the easy part. She found it harder to forget. For as long as she could remember, her relationship with her father had been fraught with tension—as if there were a rope pulled tight between them, threads splitting and unwinding. Whether that would change, she did not know.

He drew a breath to speak again.

“I haven’t…been myself in a long time—not truly. When your mother died I withdrew. I didn’t know how to talk to you on difficult matters…”

It sounded like some speech he had prepared. Brienne shifted uncomfortably, looked out to sea. He abandoned the speech and sighed.

“I’m such a fool,” he muttered. “I’ve always wanted to see you married to a good lord, someone who would take care of you and preserve the family line. It’s me more than you that needs taken care of. I opened my ears to words I wanted to hear, to what was easiest to bear. Would that I had listened to you and Ser Goodwin. It took me nearly destroying everything to realize how wrong and misguided I was.”

Brienne met his gaze. In his eyes was tenderness.

“I hardly know how to regain your trust. But I will try. Is there anything you want, Brienne?”

She swallowed hard. Her throat felt dry.

“Tell me. I’ll give it to you.”

“No more betrothals,” she blurted.

He uttered a laugh then realized she was serious.

“Is that really all?”

“You said you would shut me out if I refused another--”

He lay a hand upon her shoulder and turned to face her fully.

“That is something I could never, ever do,” he said hoarsely. “It is unthinkable. Tell me you believe me in this at least.”

Brienne bit her lip. She did believe him, but dared not speak for fear of shedding tears. Instead, she nodded. This seemed to satisfied him, and he released her.

“It was your mother’s wish that you marry for love. Now it is mine as well. You may marry whomever you choose, Brienne.”

She felt a rush of hope. It glowed warm for an instant--then faded cold. _The only man I will ever love is Renly._

“What if I never marry?” she asked.

Worry flickered across the Evenstar’s face. He blinked it away.

“Never is a very long time from now. Until then, you may do as you please—unbound by coerced betrothals. I promise.”

Brienne’s heart soared.

“I may do as I please?” she whispered. “And on my own time?”

He nodded.

The tension lifted and so did she, light as the ocean breeze. She fell into his arms, buried her face in his shoulder and wept tears of relief. He held her tightly, kissed her head. “Thank you,” she said over and again. “Thank you.”

No more betrothals. Then she remembered something, and pulled away.

“We should see to Ser Humfrey.”

He frowned.

“Who?”

 

-

The old proud knight thrashed about on his cot in the infirmary, uttering obscenities while Hydda changed his bandages.

“It will go easier for you if hold still, Ser--”

“It will go easier for me if you get away, you fat and ugly hag. When I return to Grandview, oh yes--a letter will be in order to Lord Renly! The whole realm will know of the witchcraft, the crudeness with which I have been treated!”

“You will do nothing of the sort, Ser Humfrey,” Lord Selwyn said sharply.

The knight froze at the sight of the Evenstar in full health and color, towering over his bed.

“What is this new sorcery? Where is the Lady Tarth?”

“There has been no Lady Tarth these past fifteen years,” Lord Selwyn said. It was the most anyone had spoken of Roelle in the last few days.

The knight looked from Brienne to her father, his shriveled prune mouth working in and out.

“I will write Lord Renly--”

“And tell him what?” Lord Selwyn asked. “That you insulted my daughter, and she bested you in the sparring yard? That she beat your pride so bloody you were compelled to conjure vicious rumors? Because that is what I will inform the entire realm if any foul word of my rule escapes your lips or hand. Who will Lord Renly believe--a landless knight, or the Lord of Tarth?”

The knight closed his mouth into a pinched white line.

“That’s what I thought,” Lord Selwyn said. He looked to the innkeeper. “Hydda. If this man utters any further insult to you or my daughter, inform me of it. I will make him captain of his own chamberpot and dispatch him across the straits.”

Hydda’s brown eyes widened with understanding.

“Yes m’lord,” she said. “But m’lord...there’s someone else you must needs see to.”

She led them to the next chamber. Ser Goodwin sat straight up in bed and smiled bravely. Brienne felt a rush of relief.

“You are well, Ser Goodwin,” Lord Selwyn said, relieved.

“Getting there,” the knight said slowly. He pushed back the sheet, and Brienne’s heart stopped cold. His right leg was a stump, bandaged just below the knee. Lord Selwyn stared.

“It’s all right,” he said, with an odd cheerfulness. “I’ve always wanted more time to work on carving. I can start by fashioning myself a new leg.”

Brienne swallowed hard.

“You will still be master at arms,” Lord Selwyn said, his words rushing together. “You may resume your duties as soon as you are able--”

“I’m not able, my lord.”

“You’re missing a leg, not a sword arm.”

“I cannot, my lord.”

Lord Selwyn paused. When he spoke again, his voice wavered.

“Have you lost faith in me, then?”

“No, my lord,” Ser Goodwin said, with fierce earnestness. “Had I lost faith in you, I’d have not come back. An oath is an oath. Years ago you took a chance on me when I was all but dead to the world. What kind of sworn knight would I be if I did not do the same for you? But look at me now. I am old. Sixty-two years of age, and I feel it.”

It was true, Brienne realized. Ser Goodwin’s was such a friendly and familiar face to her, even when he frowned. But now, in this light, she saw how many lines arched over his brow--like a tall stack of folded sheets. His grey eyes were weary. Even his fierce scar which jagged temple to jaw looked tired and sagging. Hydda reached out for him, and he took her plump hand in his. He smiled up at her and spoke again.

“But in my exile, despite the witch’s cloak and all--I caught glimpse of a more restful life.”

A soft blush spread over the innkeeper’s chubby, dimpled cheeks. Lord Selwyn looked from one to the other as he came to the truth of it.

“You could both stay here at Evenfall. We don’t need a new maester with your expertise, Hydda.”

“Your lordship is very kind, but I rather prefer my inn.”

“And I desire a more humble life,” Ser Goodwin said. “In truth, I always was a better carpenter than a knight. But worry not my lord--I don’t intend to entirely disappear from your service. I’ve noticed that the stables are in a cruel state of disrepair.  Once I’m healed, I’ll help bring them to rights.”

Lord Selwyn nodded, but still looked grim.

“That’s all well, but...who will be Evenfall’s master at arms?”

“Perhaps she’s standing next to you, my lord.”

The three of them turned to Brienne. Brienne felt her ears turn red.

“Me?” she stammered.

Her father smiled.

“You’re right, Ser Goodwin--as always. I can think of no better choice. What do you think, Brienne?”

She imagined herself charged with with leading all the knights of Evenfall. Training new squires. Taking the pages to Morne for their rite of passage into squirehood. She would stay close to her father, to Ser Goodwin and Hydda. She would continue to live in the only home she had ever known--not as a maiden in waiting but as a woman with a purpose.

Then, quick as fleeting dreams, Renly’s visage appeared to her. His easy laugh, his coal-black locks of hair. If I commit as master at arms, I cannot be near him. It was a silly thought. How did she expect to be near him in any case? Yet the feeling was unshakeable and wrung dry any desire to accept the offer.

“No--I cannot possibly accept. I am too young.”

“Nonsense,” her father said. “There have been kings younger than you.”

“I do not want to lead,” she insisted. “I never have.”

Brienne held his gaze, unblinking. Finally, her father raised his brows and shrugged in resignation.

“Well. In that case I shall have to scour the kingdom for a worthy and battle-tested knight. I must make haste in sending out the ravens.”

He made for the door. Brienne’s mind raced.

“No—wait!”

She spoke so sharply that her father snapped back around, alarmed. Ser Goodwin and Hydda eyed her curiously.

“I have someone else in mind.”

-

Brienne reached the northern cliffs after a half day’s ride. It had only been a week since she was last here, but it felt like an age. A clean salt breeze flooded her nostrils. The waves washed slower and more rhythmically on the rocks than they did in the south, and the wind blew more gently. A peaceful quietude filled her bright as the rising sun.

She scaled the dusty rock down to the cave entrance with charcoal-scarred walls. Hop the three-legged dog limped out to greet her with a smiling pant, and she bent to scratch behind his ears. Soon after, the small YiTish warrior came out of the cave. She pulled down the hood of her cloak, revealing the familiar scarred face framed by jet black hair. Joy sparkled in her one black eye, and even the empty eye lifted. _She is happy to see me._

"There is lightness in your step," Sunyi said. “You have made amends with your father?”

“I have.”

“Then why do you return?”

“To bring you back with me, to Evenfall,” she said. “There’s a position for you--master at arms."

Sunyi’s face darkened, and so did Brienne’s hopes. She had good practice in reading the woman’s silent stares. This was one that said no.

"I told you before. This is where I belong."

"You told me before that I was too young to live in these caves," Brienne pressed. "And so are you. You have so much to give.”

Sunyi gave her another long look. “I am sorry you have traveled so far, for nothing.” She pulled up her hood and turned to retreat.

Brienne stood helplessly, trying to summon words which would persuade her. For so long the woman had isolated herself in these cliffs--like some wounded beast waiting to die. _That's not what she is._

“You said you wanted to avenge your son!” Brienne shouted.

Sunyi stopped. Her black cloak ruffled in the breeze. She stood still as stone, but Brienne knew she was listening.

“What better way than by teaching others how to fight for what they know in their hearts is right?” Brienne said, desperately. “After all...you taught me."

Hop stood between the two of them, wagging his tail and looking from one to the other. Sunyi turned back and raised her gaze to meet Brienne's. A half smile lifted her scarred and windburnt cheeks.

“You are so stubborn.”

-

Upon their return to Evenfall, they found Lord Selwyn and Ser Goodwin in the equipment shed of the stables. The space was small for what it housed--spurs, stirrups, saddles and reins covered the walls so tightly, it looked quite the mess. The knight sat at a work bench in a wheeled chair, drawing out plans for a larger shed on a broad leaf of parchment while his lord stooped over. So ensconced they were in the work they didn’t even notice when Brienne stepped in, Sunyi at her side. She cleared her throat.

“This is Sunyi Qin,” Brienne said. “Our new master at arms.”

Ser Goodwin raised his eyebrows. Lord Selwyn frowned. He came from behind the table to stand before the tiny warrior, giving her a closer study. The height disparity was comical--he was nearly two feet taller.

“Too small,” he scoffed.

Sunyi met his stare with a hard, fierce look.

“Is that a challenge, my lord?” she asked, raising her spear.

He regarded the gesture with skeptical bemusement.

“No. I have great respect for YiTi and its warriors. I met one of your kind in the Stepstones. You’re very quick with your spears and martial arts. But I’m afraid you don’t know our weapons, our ways of fighting.”

Brienne cringed. Sunyi smiled and threw down her spear.

“Then you have never met Sunyi Qin.”

Sharp as a knife through hot butter, she reached for Brienne’s swordbelt and drew the blade. Alarmed, Lord Selwyn drew his own sword--but too late. Sunyi had the advantage in surprise and momentum; she cut upward with an underhand strike, disarming the Evenstar and sending him stumbling toward the back wall. With her left hand she swiped two spiked spurs from the shelf and threw them like discs. They caught the loose material on Lord Selwyn’s robes, pinning him to the wall. Sunyi pointed the sword into his neck.

“Do not swallow, my lord--the point will slice the bob of your throat,” she said, a curt sweetness in her smoky voice.

Brienne stood frozen, not daring to breathe. Ser Goodwin gripped his quill as tightly as if it were a sword hilt. A few stable boys peeked their heads in through the open door, eyes wide like duck eggs.

For a few heartbeats, Lord Selwyn clung motionless to the wall. Slowly, the corners of his lips tugged up. Sunyi lowered the sword. He laughed long and loud, freeing his arms from the wall and dusting off the sleeves.

“Well,” he said. “When can you start?”

-

Days and months passed, turning quickly as late summer leaves. The seasons were changing. Brienne awoke one morning to find that Tarth’s deciduous green trees had deepened to fiery shades of autumn, like hedge knights abandoning one lord’s colors for another. Only one tree kept its rich green leaves; the tree which Brienne sat beneath this very evening. It stood alone on the hill overlooking Evenfall’s seat and the sea. _Your mother’s favorite tree,_ her father told her when she asked. _She lies beneath it now, along with your sisters._

Brienne ran her fingers through the grass. The soil was warm from the day-long sun. She closed her eyes and leaned against the smooth trunk, listening to the gentle breeze in the branches. All was peaceful here.

Yet a growing restlessness stirred deep within her. She leaned forward again, gazing out over Evenfall and the glistening water. The castle looked a small toy from here. The waves sounded a mere whisper. The seasons are changing--so should I, she thought. For the first time, Tarth seemed too small for her. She squinted at the horizon, trying to make clear the hazy purple thread which was Storm’s End. Renly wasn’t there, she knew--he was at King’s Landing, recently named to the small council as Master of Laws. The ravens came from Ser Cortnay Penrose, castellan at Storm’s End. _Dark wings, dark words._ The King’s Hand Jon Arryn was dead. Ned Stark of Winterfell had been renamed the new hand. Brienne’s father kept her abreast of all these matters. _Someday you will rule Tarth, and need to have a working knowledge of such events--the dull, the exciting, and everything in between._ He meant to make light of it, but there was a tightness in his brow she had not seen for many months.

A breeze rushed from the north, raising gooseprickles on her skin. She shivered. It was icy, much unlike the gentle summer breeze. She looked up. The tree was still caped in green, but the leaves whispered in a way she had not heard before.

_Winter is coming._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for struggling through this whole Roelle exposition with me. I know it was uncomfortable at times, but we have reached the end of that nightmare! It was mostly metaphorical, anyway.
> 
> I should say now that I'm not going to kill Ser Goodwin--that was as bad as it gets for him. I planned to so it could be canon-compliant (Brienne remembers him as "long dead" in the books) but I just love him too much and can't. Maybe see that as a metaphor as well; the death of him holding his position as master at arms. 
> 
> So we have two more chapters, including the epilogue! Next chapter will be pretty brief for this story (2K words? we'll see) so forgive me in advance. 
> 
> Hope you're all loving season 7 of GoT as I am!


	19. Under a Changing Sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A wedding. News from Renly. Changes for Brienne.
> 
> Selwyn/Brienne/Selwyn POV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter won't be very long, she said. Only 2K words or so, she said. lol, Yeah right.
> 
> Thanks for waiting for this...one would think I'd have more time in summer but in reality I just get lazier. Enjoy!

-

Selwyn

-

Autumn deepened gently. The sun arced low in the sky, soft and lazy as melted butter. Tarth’s forest was rich with color--the trees caped half in copper and half in green, with peach smears of light slanting through the foliage. The leaves would not fall for a while yet, Selwyn knew; long summers were loathe to crisp too quickly.

The wedding ceremony had just ended. A hundred or so guests abandoned their tables, bellies full from feasting and spirits merry from drinking. Knights, stewards, sailors, even a smattering of workers from Marblehead with their wives and children followed the polished moon-shaped stones from the forest sept. Silver-gold ribbons strung between tree branches all the way down to the babbling brook. The water bubbled like wine freshly poured, running clear until it burst white over the rocks into sparkling jet streams. Selwyn walked along the bankside, dry twigs and pine needles crunching under his boots. He watched as small wooden boats the size of ducks were placed in the water, two at a time. The race was ready to begin.

_“And…go!”_

The wooden crafts bobbed and glided along the current while the onlookers followed and cheered along. Copper Tongue played merrily on his ‘cello, following the race and narrating events in song. Each time a boat stuck in the reeds or capsized in the rapids, the crowd would moan in sympathy and the owner would kneel to collect his craft, sullen yet smiling.

Selwyn made his way to the finish line, marked by a fell tree over the stream. Ser Goodwin had just won the fourth heat. The groom-knight was donned handsomely in a dark doublet embroidered in off-white, complementing Hydda’s ivory dress. She looked quite handsome herself, coarse brown hair tamed into the southern style and fastened with pins, a necklace of moonstones strung round her plump neck. Her brown eyes gleamed even brighter, her cheeks rosy as apples as she gazed lovingly on her husband. She extended a fleshy arm, ready to help as he bent down awkwardly. Ser Goodwin’s black trousers were cropped at the right knee—laying bare the smooth oaken peg, soled and shod at the foot. Still he managed to kneel and collect his craft from the water.

“Your new leg serves you well,” Selwyn said.

“Aye, my lord. Though I still require help in some tasks.” The last words came out in a grunt as his wife helped him up to a standing position and brushed the pine needles from his shin.

“Just as well,” Selwyn said. “Your kneeling days are done.”

He only realized how awkward it sounded as soon as the words came out. Ser Goodwin shot him a jolted look which softened to knowing. He smiled.

“Enough of the past, my lord.”

The knight had forgiven him for the darker days at Evenfall. Everyone had. Still--no matter how hard Selwyn tried, remorse crept into his words, thoughts and dreams. _I almost ruined my entire isle. My family._ He blinked himself out of the spiral.

“You’ve certainly chosen the right event for your talents,” he said, nodding to the boat tucked under Ser Goodwin’s right arm. It was customary for a knight’s wedding to include some competitive event--archery, hunting, or even a melee. Ser Goodwin had declined tradition in favor of an event which better suited his abilities.

“Fourth heat and one to go,” he said, proudly patting the hull. The bark was heavy and tapered at the bottom and finely chiseled at the bow to cut water and draw momentum.

“He’s been whittling away for weeks,” Hydda muttered under her breath. “I told him we’d never have a wedding at all if it was all he paid mind to.”

“And for your patience, dear wife, I’ve named her after you,” Ser Goodwin said with a kiss on her cheek.

“You should be careful,” Selwyn said, glancing to the other side of the bank. “Sunyi’s boat is quite good.”

The small YiTish warrior stood serene and still, cradling in her arms a sleek hull with a low wide sail. Her craft was much more humble than Ser Goodwin’s boat, but one which danced lightly over the river’s surface like a water skipper. _The design suits her nature,_ Selwyn thought.

He marveled at how he first thought the woman unsuitable for the position of master-at-arms--not just for her size, but her appearance. She had been living in a cave for years and looked it with her patched and salt-stained cloak, the wild stubbornness in her one good eye. But in no time she had proven herself a more than fitting master-at-arms. _“No one could ever fill Ser Goodwin’s boots--but this one has brought her own,”_ it was said of her. She donned a sapphire-blue tunic, belted in black leather slung with two scythe-like blades. The steel gleamed dark and sharp as the light of her right eye. A glass eye had been fashioned for the red hollow under her left brow; she looked better and far more comfortable with it, enough so that she no longer pulled a hood over her head.

Sunyi must have felt Selwyn’s gaze, for she met it. She gave him a courtly nod which he returned.

“You root for your new master-at-arms over your old, my lord?” Ser Goodwin asked, almost teasingly. Curiosity danced in his grey eyes.

“That is an unworthy question,” Selwyn said quickly. “I only mean to say that she is quite the woodworker herself--resourceful. She may put your talents to the test.”

Aside from her own talents, the tiny warrior was a good woman. Her influence on Brienne might have eased the damage done by others. _Certainly not all of it,_ Selwyn knew.

He scanned the crowd until his gaze caught on his tall daughter. Brienne stood apart from the rest, surveying the race from a stone foot bridge further upstream. From this distance, one who didn’t know her might think her a comely knight rather than a highborn maiden—she stood well above six feet tall with broad shoulders that had swelled larger from training. A long braid of yellow hair tailed down her back, but she wore men’s leathers, trousers and boots. Selwyn couldn’t remember the last time he had seen his daughter in women’s dress--but it was no matter. It was plain to see that she was comfortable, something she had rarely been while growing up.

He watched her cross the bridge to the refreshment table with empty water goblet in hand. A young knight intercepted her grasp for the pitcher and poured for her.

_Ser Turnip._

The knight was over twenty now, but still had a laddish look with the plump cheeks and milk-blonde curls of his youth. He was nearly a foot shorter than Brienne, but gazed up at her with soft admiration all the same. It charmed Selwyn, and he approached the table where they stood to fill his own cup with wine. Turnip’s ears reddened, and he dipped his chin. “My lord,” he muttered and took his leave. Once the knight was out of earshot, Selwyn leaned to Brienne.

“He fancies you.”

A look of annoyance flickered across her face.

“Turnip is my friend.”

“Of course. I just want to remind you—it’s not necessary for you to marry highborn.”

“Father.”

“The rules can be bent. You have your own land and titles. A name your husband could share—“

_“Father!”_

“Sorry.”

Selwyn knew better, but he had to try. He had long given up arranging betrothals for his child and only heir; he owed her that much. Yet here she was, nineteen years of age and still a maid of Evenfall. He knew that if she would not have anyone here and he could not make a match for her himself, it did her no good to linger on Tarth. _And yet a great part of me would keep her here forever if I could, my legacy be damned._

The clouds shifted, muting the sun’s glow through the leaves. A chill rustled through the wood. Birdsong and ‘cello music faded and Selwyn’s thoughts flew across the sea. Strange events were afoot in the seven kingdoms. King Robert was dead. A boy king now sat on the Iron Throne. Rumor had it that he was spiteful and malicious, controlled by his lady mother and his uncle Imp. _Lannisters._ They had thrown Lord Eddard Stark in the dungeons for his blasphemous claims about the young Baratheon heirs, spurring the northern lords to gather and rally their forces. Robert’s Rebellion was so many years ago now, but it seemed to Selwyn as if it were only yesterday.

“Father, did you hear me?”

He snapped from his contemplation.

“Yes?”

His daughter stared at him with brow furrowed, her blue eyes dark with concern. “I asked if you had received more news.”

“No. I have not.”

She turned her attention back to her water goblet, tracing the rim with her thumb. In past weeks Selwyn knew she watched with equal apprehension as ravens flew back and forth, delivering dark words with their dark wings. A restlessness stirred within her now even as it grew in the heart of the seven kingdoms.

“I’ve been thinking about what I would like to do,” she said quietly.

“Oh?”

“I would like to go to King’s Landing.”

Selwyn inhaled sharply.

“I know what you’re going to say,” she said. “That I don’t want to go there, that it would bore me to death and I would regret it within days. But I won’t.”

“Have you considered Bear Island?”

“Bear Island?” Brienne burst in bewilderment. “Bear Island is in the North. What could possibly be there for me?”

 _Lots of things,_ Selwyn thought. Women who fought and led--who were also mothers, wives and matriarchs. Good men who appreciated such women. Perhaps Brienne would find a loving husband among them if he dared to hope so much.

“Lady Dacey Mormont knows of you and would be more than willing to host you. You don’t need to be near the nonsense at the capital. Bear Island is safely away from all that.” In truth, Selwyn realized the North was no better if they went to war with the South. _At least it isn’t King’s Landing._

“I don’t _want_ to be safely away,” Brienne said firmly. “And I’m not leaving one island just to go to another. If I go to King’s Landing, I could help Lord Renly in his duties as Master-at-Laws.”

_So there it is._

“Lord Renly has Ser Loras to help him,” he said, bringing his wine cup to his lips.

“Ser Loras is a knight from Highgarden,” Brienne said dismissively. “I could assist Lord Renly as--as a sort of envoy from the Stormlands.”

Selwyn almost snorted out his wine.

“A sort of _envoy_?” he laughed. “This is certainly a new-found interest you have in politics.”

She scowled. He settled to a serious demeanor again.

“Trust me, you don’t want to go to King’s Landing. It reeks something awful.”

“It can’t possibly be any worse than the port of Tarth,” she said. But Selwyn had turned his attention to the race. The guests cheered and bantered as Ser Goodwin and Sunyi Qin set their boats in the water.

“You said not very long ago that you would let me do as I pleased--”

Brienne was drowned out by uproarious laughter and cheering erupted from the crowd by the river. Copper Tongue followed the two boats downstream, sawing away at his ‘cello with the bow and belting out a singing narration of events. Ser Goodwin and Sunyi’s boats touched the fallen tree at the same time.

“Of course it’s a draw,” Selwyn said, smiling. Brienne still stared at him expectantly. He sighed.

“If only you will linger a while longer at Evenfall, just until I feel more secure about the events unfolding out there--”

“I can handle myself _out there_ just fine.”

Selwyn started to reply, but stopped. A man in holy robes approached. The septon smiled and gave a curt bow with his head.

“My Lord. The guests await your address.”

Selwyn forced a smile and patted Brienne’s shoulder. She still wore a deep scowl.

“We will talk on this when we return to Evenfall.”

The guests trickled back to their seats while Lord Selwyn circled round the tables to the entrance of the sept. He turned to gaze upon the crowd, their faces alight with merriment. The sun was shining glorious again, dappling the forest floor and gilding the stream. Selwyn breathed a sigh of relief. After so many years, he couldn’t believe Tarth was finally seeing a large public event which was going according to plan.

“As Septon Forsyth said earlier, all of us are truly blessed to be here, to enjoy each other’s company and witness this beautiful union,” he announced.

He looked to the happy couple seated at the head table. Hydda leaned into Ser Goodwin, and he squeezed his bride close with a strong arm around her shoulders.

“We are not only approaching a changing of the seasons, but a new century. And though summer fades…”

Selwyn’s words trailed off. He felt the earth pound beneath his feet. The beating of hooves sounded in the distance. Birds tittered and scattered away. He peered into the forest, and guests turned in their seats. Two heartbeats later, a horse and rider emerged through the trees. The rider leaned forward on his mount, his shoulders rounded like a stack of hay and long brown robes flying back in the wind.

_Maester Toby._

Fresh out of the Citadel, the young maester had come to Tarth last year. He was a husky brute with one bushy brow over both his eyes. Such was his build and skill as a horseman, Selwyn had asked upon his arrival why he didn’t train to be a knight instead of a maester. _Wasn’t my preference, my lord,_ he had answered gruffly. And certainly Toby proved his maesterly prowess--he was meticulous with the rookery and gentle with the ravens. He spent long hours drawing oils from plants and distilling them for medicines. He had even reorganized Evenfall’s library so that it was easier to search for tomes by date and topic.

 _Looks can deceive._ It was a lesson Selwyn never stopped learning. Now he held his breath as the maester dismounted and extended the rolled parchment.

 _Can it wait?_ Selwyn asked silently. The maester’s dark eyes said no.

Selwyn took the parchment and squinted at the seal. The wax was green--almost a Highgarden green--with a stag embossed in gold dust. It was surely the stag of House Baratheon. _But their signature wax is a mustard color._ And only kings dusted their wax seals with gold...

Selwyn’s heart stopped. He tore open the seal and unfurled the parchment scroll. The script was Lord Renly’s hand. Selwyn read it briefly, swallowed, read it again. He looked up. All eyes were on him. _Dark wings, dark words._

“What does it say, my lord?” Ser Goodwin said.

Selwyn glanced over to Brienne. Her brow was furrowed, her lips parted. The letter contained certain news she may not want to hear. _I have no choice; this moment cannot be delayed._ He took in a breath and spoke.

“This letter comes from Storm’s End. Lord Renly is now King Renly. He has crowned himself in the wake of blood and chaos at King’s Landing. Ned Stark has been beheaded by the boy king, King Joffrey. King Renly has taken Margaery of House Tyrell for his queen--”

Selwyn looked to Brienne. Her face was stone.

“--and asks fealty from all houses in the Stormlands. Stannis has also crowned himself king at Dragonstone, a Red Priestess at his side. He will soon ask the same.”

Lord Selwyn lowered the parchment. _A Red Priestess. A witch._ That was all the information he needed to know. “Tarth will kneel to King Renly.”

Silence broke into murmurs which rose into a swarming, waspish buzz.

_“We have a king!”_

_“With kings come war.”_

_“Will we war with King Joffrey? And the Lannisters?”_

Selwyn silenced them with his hand.

“There is more. King Renly writes that he is in need of a seventh guardsman. He asks that all sworn bannerman send their best knight to fight in a melee at Bitterbridge. Three days from now.”

The crowd’s din rose again, louder than before. Some knights rose from their seats with a wide-eyed and hungry look.

_“A king! We have a king who seeks a guardsman!”_

_“I am the best swordsman. I should go to the melee.”_

_“Prove it!”_

Chairs fell away from tables. Women gathered their children as knights pushed each other, shouting with their hands on their hilts. Selwyn heard the silvery sound of steel sliding from scabbard and fear rushed into his heart.

“Arms away!” he yelled. “Arms away!”

They didn’t hear him. Ser Goodwin tried to restrain one knight, but his wooden leg impaired him. He stumbled and almost fell before his broad-bodied wife caught him.

At that moment, Sunyi Qin leapt onto the head table and drew her two swords in one swift movement.

“Listen you cunts!” she roared.

The chaos hushed, sudden as great beast’s maw snapping shut. All heads turned, their faces frozen in astonishment.

“If I see one more blade unsheathed,” she continued lowly, “I’ll cut off all your cocks.”

Selwyn stared along with the rest. He had no idea that she had such a voice--or that she even knew those words.

The unruly knights were chastened, and swords slipped back into their scabbards. Sunyi leapt off the table, sheathed her own blades. She tucked her hands behind her back, looked to Selwyn and nodded dutifully.

“Evenhall will send one knight,” he said, speaking the last two words slowly and deliberately. “We will hold our own melee tomorrow morning to determine which knight that is.”

Little more was left to say. The service ended there, and the crowd’s babble overcame that of the brook. Selwyn scanned the scene for his daughter.

Sunyi touched his arm and pointed west.

He could just see her--she was mounted and riding into the thick of the forest, her blonde braid snapping hard against her back.

-

Brienne

-

_King Renly has taken Margaery of House Tyrell for his queen._

The words echoed in her mind, louder than the horse hooves pounding the ground beneath her. The forest blurred by. Rolling green hills crusted to stone as Evenfall loomed near.

Numb and hollow of heart, Brienne entered the castle gate and led Sunburst back to the stables. Her hands felt dull and heavy as lead, but she managed to unsaddle the mare and feed her an apple.

“Lady Brienne!” a smudge-faced stable boy said. “Back already? Where’s everyone else?”

Brienne drifted past him, gaze fixed forward. She had already forgotten the quaint wedding in the forest. _Renly has wed a beautiful maiden of a great house._ Margaery was rumored to be exceptionally beautiful. _A beautiful queen for a beautiful king. As it should be._

Tears quickened to her eyes and she paced through the courtyard with long strides, avoiding the curious glances of servants. She burst through the door of the Stone Keep and climbed the winding stairwell of the east tower as quickly as she could.

Brienne entered her chamber, closed the door and fell into bed. She lay face down, squeezing her pillow and trying to suppress her tears. But flow they did. She buried her face so hard in the pillow to muffle her sobs, she almost couldn’t breathe.

_Renly was once promised to me._

She knew the reason her father had broken the engagement. But despite it--or perhaps in spite of it--she had harbored hope against hope that he would someday be hers, and she would be his. _I have my own flaws. I could bear all of his, and more._

Night fell. Brienne didn’t bother to light the candles. She ignored her father when he knocked and called her name. Finally, she slept. A dreamless sleep, black as the bottom of the sea.

She awoke to swords clanging and shouts in the yard outside her window. Cheers erupted--a sound so foreign and far away, Brienne felt she was deep underwater while ships crossed at the surface. She opened her eyes and brought herself to her knees. She cracked open the shutters and squinted out the window. Down on the sparring green, a knight took off his helm and scrubbed his fingers through sweat-slicked black hair. He knelt down before Lord Selwyn.

“Congratulations, Ser Alfyn,” the Evenstar said. “You will represent Evenfall at the melee at Bitterbridge.” Her father gave the young knight a sword. It gleamed brightly as a riverstone in sunlight.

Brienne closed the shutters and collapsed back onto her bed. Shadows of hours moved across the stone ceiling. She rolled over, slept some more.

This time, she dreamt. She was sitting at her vanity, staring at her own reflection in a mirror. Her room looked exactly the same, but her own reflection didn’t--her face was prettier somehow. That was how she knew it was a dream. The reflection smiled and held up a sword, reaching through the mirror to give it to Brienne. She accepted it. She tilted it in her hands, admiring how bright and sharp it was--just like the one her father gave Ser Alfyn in the sparring yard.

She opened her eyes to darkness, but for a finger of pale moonlight cutting through a crack in the shutters. It fell on her mirror across the room, lighting it dark silver like a midnight lake. Brienne sat up and wondered. Would a more beautiful version of herself be waiting there to give her a sword, like in her dream?

_Of course not. Don’t be stupid._

All that was in the mirror would be her ugly face with broad features, her eyes puffy and encrusted with tears. She rubbed at them fiercely and chastised herself for crying over Renly--a romantic interest she had no chance with--when the children of House Stark had lost their lord father. _How could I be so selfish._

She unlatched the shutters and squinted. The moon was only a crescent, and its position in the sky told her it was early morning--a couple hours before dawn at most. Her stomach rumbled. She was hungry and her mouth was dry. With new resolve, she got up and lit a candle, then left her chamber for the Great Hall.

She descended the stairwell, and several times thought she heard movement which was not her own. Each time she would turn round and lift her candle, the glow catching nothing but stone.

Groggy song and the clinking of cups sounded as Brienne exited the tower into the corridor, and the carousing grew louder as she neared the Great Hall. She opened the door and saw a group of knights huddled around empty cups, the tallest and broadest of them in the middle--Ser Alfyn.

They all stood when they saw her, wood chairs groaning on stone. Alfyn rendered a deep bow. Mockingly deep.

“M’lady,” he said, slurring the words together. His dark eyes had a greasy look to them, much like his black hair. He was obviously drunk and celebrating one last night on Tarth with his friends--company Brienne disliked almost as much as she disliked him.

“How good of you to join us. We were just--”

“Congratulations, Ser Alfyn.”

Her curtness struck him dumb for a moment. Brienne sat a bit further down the table and turned her attentions to some food left from dinner. She tore off a hunk of bread and carved herself a thick slice of cheese.

“Thank you,” Alfyn said pointedly. “To be honest, I thought I would have to fight you to even get close to King Renly.”

The other knights snickered. Brienne ignored them, eating silently.

“We didn’t see you at all in the yard.  Where were you?”

“I fell ill at the wedding.”

“A shame,” Alfyn said, dripping such false melancholy that Brienne had to bite her lip. “You fight well enough,” he said graciously. “You might even have had a chance. But still. Even if your father allowed it, I highly doubt Renly would even think about accepting a _woman_ in his guard.”

Brienne stood from her seat.

“I wish you best of luck at the melee at Bitterbridge,” she said, and turned to leave.

“Did I offend, my lady?” he called after her. “I only meant that King Renly has a fondness for cock!”

The other knights burst out laughing, and Brienne turned back slowly. They were glowing with sweat from drink and laughter. Alfyn met her gaze, and raised his brows as if to challenge her. He had won Evenfall’s melee, but was still lusty for a fight.

“That is slander,” Brienne said lowly. “And I will not hear it in this hall.”

“It’s not slander if it’s true, my lady,” Alfyn said. “Everyone knows it. Perhaps I’ll even curl my hair for the melee. Tie ribbons to my shoulder plates. I hear he likes the pretty ones.”

“That counts you out, Alfyn,” another knight said with a smirk.

“Oh fuck off!” Alfyn took a jab at him while the others laughed.

“Don’t you dare mock King Renly,” Brienne said, her voice clenched in anger. “You are competing for a position in his Kingsguard!”

“It’s not just a Kingsguard--he calls it a Rainbow Guard.”

“A different color cape for every knight!”

They laughed so hard they collapsed on the table, whooping and wheezing. Brienne’s right hand went instinctively to her hip--but it grasped nothing, for she wore no sword tonight.

“Stop, stop!” Alfyn said, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. “She’s right. We shouldn’t mock our king. Still, my lady--would that your lord father had sworn his banners to Stannis instead. He's a real man and a better king. Seven hells, I might not even have the chance to fight at all. This so-called Rainbow Guard is a personal harem for all we know--”

Brienne hurtled over the table. She was unarmed, but she had her fists and her own weight, and with that she took Alfyn straight down, his skull cracking on the stone floor. He wasn’t laughing anymore as she swung right, then left, right and left again. Wet beads ran down her cheeks. She didn’t know if it was sweat or tears. She hit him harder and harder, until hot pain seared up one arm. She leaned back and shook it out, breathless. Her knuckles were raw and red.

The knight’s face was bloody as a butchered suckling pig. He spat out a few teeth. Dark blood still poured from his nostrils over his ruined lips. His nose was broken in at least once, and his eyes already swollen shut.

Brienne got up and backed away, breathing hard and at a loss for what to say or do. She had never beaten a man like that--not even Ser Humfrey. The other knights were silent and had stood from the table. But they weren’t looking at Alfyn. They knelt down and bowed their heads.

Brienne felt a prickling on her neck and turned. There was her father, standing in the same doorway she had entered through. He was still as a statue and surveying the scene, horror quivering in his eyes. That look would soon turn to anger, Brienne knew. She broke his gaze and stepped over the bloodied knight. Her boots echoed hollowly on the stone floor as she paced the length of the hall and made her exit through the tall double doors.

-

By the time she descended the staircase carved into the cliff and reached the pebbled shore beneath Evenfall’s towers, the sky was light with grey dawn. She had once walked this beach with Renly. _He even kissed me._ But those were memories, and nothing more.

It had rained overnight, and small pools of fresh water collected around boulders and piles of driftwood. She knelt to one of the pools and broke the stillness with her hands, washing her torn knuckles of blood. The water settled. She took in her reflection--her mannish and freckled broad features. Brienne the Beauty. She sighed, then frowned. There was something that wasn’t her reflection. A red scar, right by her head. Brienne stood and looked up.

Red streaked across the sky. At first Brienne thought it was a stretch of sunrise cloud, but no. This mark was thin and sharp as a finger cut.

“A comet.”

Her father appeared from the bottom of Evenfall’s staircase. He was cloaked in deep blue, his silver-white hair blowing in the wind. Pebbles crunched underfoot as he approached, squinting up at the red streak.

“Those who study the stars know that it is merely a rock hurling through the heavens at a high speed,” he said. “That’s what gives it a red tail. But of course, there’s also superstition. Some say that the comet is a herald of war, a change in world order--it can even mean dragons.”

“Dragons?” Brienne said, incredulous.

“We hear many things from the east. I’m not certain how much to believe. Regardless of how you explain them, comets are rare things. One may live ten lifetimes never to see such another event.”

“If it’s a rare occurrence,” Brienne said, “Why do I feel exactly the same?”

“You aren’t the same. I saw what you did to Ser Alfyn.”

So he had come to reprimand her.

“He deserved it,” Brienne said. “He insulted the king he is meant to serve.”

“The king he _was_ meant to serve.”

Brienne looked her father in the eye. He wasn’t angry with her at all--his gaze was calm and knowing. He smiled, and she knew he had witnessed the entire encounter.

“His words were treason. He won’t be on a ship for Storm’s End today, oh no--he’ll be on a ship north for the Wall.” Lord Selwyn took in a deep breath and muttered, “After all this time I’m just grateful he finally gave me a solid reason for it.”

“Then...if Alfyn isn’t going, what knight will you send to Bitterbridge?” Brienne asked.

“You.”

Her heart stopped a moment.

“What?”

“You’re the one who defeated him, aren’t you?”

“Father...”

“I’m sending you, Brienne, if you are willing. And I know that you are.”

“I--I’m not a knight,” she stammered. “I can’t be a knight.”

“But you are. In your heart. Is it not what you want?”

Brienne looked out at the sea and the sky. They seemed to have switched places. The world was suddenly upside down, and something stirred deep inside her. Nerves or longing, she could not tell--but it felt like candlelight wavering in the dark. More than anything this was what she wanted. _He cannot be mine...but perhaps I can still be his._

“Yes...but why would you allow it to me?”

“Because I’ve denied you too much, my dear child,” he said softly. “Because it’s what I wanted to do, and never had the chance to. And because I know you’ll waste away if you don’t do it. I can’t keep you here against the will of your heart. You know that, don’t you?” The last words were a trembling whisper, and she saw tears his eyes.

She nodded and looked down, biting her lip. She would not cry, not now--and she would not see him do it, either.

“I’ll ensure you have gold, a good sword and armor. I’ll furnish a letter to King Renly letting him know I have given you to his service.”

“I might not win.”

“You _will_ win,” he said, so firmly it almost sounded a command. He smiled. “Do you know--I hear Ser Ronnet Connington will be there, too. And I will be so disappointed if I hear you don’t beat him bloody.”

She smiled too, and laughed. A tear escaped down her cheek into the corner of her mouth.

“I will. I will.”

He tenderly stroked her cheek with the back of his large hand. Brienne wondered for a moment if this was how fathers looked at daughters that they were giving away as new brides. His eyes welled thick with tears again. He rubbed them away and inhaled deeply.

“Go. Pack your trunk. The melee is in two days, you want to make it to Bitterbridge with time to spare.”

Somehow she left him. She climbed the grand staircase toward Evenfall Hall, numb and shaking. _I am going to fight for King Renly._ As she whispered the words, a warmth bloomed behind her breastbone. Her legs stopped shaking. They were stronger than ever before--she rushed up the staircase, taking two steps at a time.

Once back in her bedchamber, she gathered her things and laid them into a trunk. Without dresses and ladies’ finery, she realized she didn’t have enough to fill it. She took them out and folded them into a leather saddlebag instead. _Trunks are for ladies, but not for me._ The thought struck her still for a moment, and she turned to look in the mirror. Her long braid was mussed and frayed all over. She began to rework it, then her fingers slowed.

Her hair fell nearly to her hip and was the color of straw. Course from so much sun. How Septa Roelle had chided her for not taking better care of it. How she had yanked and pecked these same strands into ladylike fashions, and grimaced when the style wouldn’t hold. Brienne could almost see the woman’s yellow eyes and pinched face in the mirror, looming over her shoulder like smoke.

“I’m not a lady,” she whispered defiantly. “Not anymore.”

And so she clenched her jaw and clutched her braid tightly by the root. With her other hand she drew her knife, then sliced through the hairs in one deft and meaty stroke.

-

Selwyn

-

He stood on the western parapets, looking out over the straits of Tarth. The sails grew smaller until they were just a large white cap in the sea. The wind picked up, and he pulled his cloak closer. It grew colder every day. Winter would be coming soon, perhaps within the year. War would come with it--that much Selwyn knew. It would be worse than before. In Robert’s Rebellion it was one side against the other; now there were five kings. _And my daughter is about to kneel to one of them, swear her sword._ The ship disappeared over the horizon. His hands still clenched over the stone wall. “She is my only child,” he whispered to himself. “What have I done?”

“The right thing.”

Selwyn jumped. The YiTish warrior had appeared by his side, quick as lightning.

“Gods, Sunyi--I have told you before not to do that.”

“Apologies, my lord.” A smirk tugged at the corners of her lips. She looked quite proud in fitted leathers and armor with Tarth colors. The sapphire sigil matched a streak of blue light in her jet-black hair. There were some silver strands, too--but they shimmered like wavelets in the sea.

“Your daughter is a great warrior. She will win the melee.”

“I have no doubt,” Selwyn said. “I only fear that I may not see her again.”

“You will.”

“How do you know?”

Sunyi turned to face him. Despite the scars on her face her features had serene and smooth lines, like that of an almond. Her good eye sparkled warm with empathy.

“You have given her a great gift. She will come back to return it to you.”

Selwyn didn’t know about that. He hadn’t even considered the Tarth legacy in his decision to let Brienne go--he had pushed the matter aside entirely. It didn’t seem important right now.

“The only gift I desire is her safety.”

Sunyi sighed and smiled.

“Safety is what we can never guarantee for our children, no matter where they are. All we can give them is our love. And you have.”

The sun went down and night fell as it always did. Selwyn retired to his observatory to gaze at the stars, a book of constellations by his side. It was a clear night. A trail of diamond dust flowed silent over the blackness with a freckling of brighter spots, pure and glimmering as freshwater pearls. And there was the red comet--center stage of the universe, burning bright and fierce like a fiery scar in the night. But scars were memories of what was past; this one was a herald of things to come. “What will happen to you out there, Brienne?” Selwyn whispered to himself. He blinked and the light went out.

All stone, land and sea melted around him. He stood in the swirling darkness—a darkness so great he swayed and thought he might lose his balance and fall into the deep. Just when it seemed all light had gone forever, a single point flickered and glowed. It welled larger, like a drop of pale ink in the evening sky. Selwyn trained his sight on the glow, tightly so as not to lose it. The light came closer, a tall figure looming behind it. Brienne. She was holding a candle. The flame cast an incandescent glow over her face, her breastplate gleaming warm as a lake at sunset. A man in full armor stood close beside her, but the silhouette was dark and Selwyn could not make out his features. Framing them both was an elm tree in twilight, a shooting star arching overhead.

Selwyn shook himself from sleep. He had fallen asleep at his Myrish starglass. The night sky’s wheel had turned, the comet all but escaped the open-domed ceiling of his observatory. All that remained was a pinkish tip of its tail.

His book of stars was old. Selwyn traced the frayed binding and flipped the pages through. It wasn’t so impressive as before. _How many men try to find comfort in the stars before they find it within themselves?_ he wondered. The glow from Brienne’s candle in his dream had shone brighter and warmer than any star in the sky.

Selwyn smiled and closed the book.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there it is! Brienne's life on Tarth. There will be an epilogue, as promised, which will take place after the events of ASOIAF/GoT and feature a certain Lannister. I haven't entirely decided how I'm going to handle it, but I promise it will please (if the rest of this story has pleased you thus far, that is). 
> 
> I'm a subtle susan at times, so in case you didn't pick up on it--there are hints throughout the past few chapters (and especially this one) that Selwyn & Sunyi will fall in love.
> 
> Next chapter will be posted end of October-ish. I've also written a Brienne & Selwyn correspondence ficlet which is compliant with this story--and which I suspect most of you have read, but here it is for good measure anyway: http://archiveofourown.org/works/11166705
> 
> Thanks again to all my loyal readers and especially the commenters. Your feedback means more than you know!


	20. Love's Tender Spring, P1 (EPILOGUE)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne and Jaime, newly married, spend time in Tarth after the events of the Great War. But in order to move on into the future, they must confront the past. Three-part epilogue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly racy sex scene at the end of this chapter, be warned/hyped.

-

Brienne

-

“Grip that rail any tighter, and you’re bound to break the ship in two.”

Brienne turned.  Jaime Lannister stood framed by sail, the wind running salt fingers through his golden hair.  He nodded to Brienne’s hands--they were white-knuckled, clutching the wide wood beams of the bark that bore them lurchingly over the Straits of Tarth.

“You’re sure you’re all right?” he said.  “We could go below.”

Brienne normally had good constitution for sailing, but nerves and an already upset stomach had weakened her.  She released the tension in her muscles and smiled bravely at her husband.

“The fresh air is much better.  And I want to see Tarth at first sighting.”

The isle was not yet visible--everything more than a stone’s throw in front of the ship was blanketed in cold fog.  Jaime curled his left arm around her waist, giving it a gentle squeeze.  As they gazed out into the mists together, she felt herself relax into his touch.

“Thank you for coming with me,” she said.

A frown creased his brow.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“The Westerlands.  Your duties there, now that the war is ended.”

“You mean _our_ duties there,” he said warmly.  “Have no worry, there’s plenty of time yet for us to play Lord and Lady of Casterly Rock.”

She firmed her lips, stifling a smile.  “I’m hardly a lady--”

He reached for her chin and stopped her mouth with his.  “You, my love,”--he spoke lowly, his lips brushing hers--“are every inch a lady.” He lavished kisses on her cheek, her chin, and all the way down her neck.

“Jaime!” she burst, but did not protest.  She smiled into his golden hair.  He smelled of salt, sea spray, and something else that was distinctly him.  He peeled away the cowl of her thick winter cloak, and his mouth found the soft skin above her collarbone.  His lips were cool from the sea air, but his breath was warm.  Brienne closed her eyes, forgetting the waves and ship entirely.  Days slipped away like sand.

They had wed quietly in the godswood at Winterfell some two months prior.  Bitter cold and darkness fell all around them as they stood before the heart tree, yet it was the sweetest, warmest of nights--the likes of which Brienne thought she would never know.   _We hid our hearts from each other for so long..._

Even after Jaime had pledged himself fully to the North, war divided them again and again, keeping her at Winterfell guarding Sansa and sending him ranging into the cold reaches of nothing.  One lightless day, there came a time when Brienne thought she would see Jaime Lannister no more.  He and the rest of his party had ranged too far, too long.  The army of the dead pressed close on Winterfell, tight as an iron clamp.  Just when all was lost--when Brienne and her company could hold them back no longer, when she had fallen and almost given herself to the icy maw of death--he returned, sword in hand, reinforcements at his heel.  The enemy was vanquished.  Winterfell was saved.

Brienne remembered how she lay there in the snow, too weak to rise.  How he knelt to her, embraced her so closely that he almost lay on top of her.

 _You’re alive,_ he said, over and again.   _You’re alive._

It was so cold that tears froze to her face and she could barely speak--but his body was warm beneath ice-crusted furs, and the sound of his voice breathed life into hers.  She remembered seeing their twin swords, how they lay silent in the snow, one over the other.  The truth rushed from her heart and out her lips.

 _I love you,_ she said.

He smiled, and he kissed her.

 _Marry me,_ he whispered.

So she did.

The ship lurched, and Brienne steadied herself.  Jaime laid his hand on the small of her back and gave her a worried look.  “I’m fine,” she reassured him.  She inhaled the sea air.  It was cold, but not so cold as winter’s breath--a scent of spring was on the wind.  Bran said he had a dream of spring.  Indeed, the days grew long and light again.  King Jon had given leave for the lords and ladies paramount to sift through the ashes of their lands, bring peace to them before convening again to discuss a new world order.  It was under such circumstances that Brienne sent a raven to her father, informing him she was alive and well, newly married to Jaime Lannister.   _We will visit Tarth soon, after we’ve been to Casterly Rock._  The Sapphire Isle was one of the few places unravaged by the Great War.  She had confidence it could wait just a bit longer.

The bird she received in return left her unsettled.

She took the rolled parchment from her cloak, unfurled it.  It was her father’s hand, but unfamiliar and strange--the letters were shaky and gnarled like windblown trees.

Jaime glanced over at it.

“May I?”

Brienne nodded, and held one end with her right hand while he gripped the other end with his left.  Their wrists crossed.  He squinted at the awkward script.

“It’s not nearly as bad as my handwriting,” he murmured.  “Perhaps he has only hurt his hand.”

“I don’t know.”

He scanned it further.

“Your father doesn’t mention being ill...all seems well on Tarth.”

“He wouldn’t tell me in a letter if he was ill--not directly,” Brienne said.  “There are a lot of things you can say without having to say them.”

Jaime frowned at her, a calculating look in his green eyes.

“Your father does that thing that you do, doesn’t he?  Where I’m supposed to read the whole world by two words and a look?”

Brienne looked at him sheepishly and blinked away. 

“Worse.”

Jaime laughed bleakly into the wind.

“I’m fucked.”

Brienne sighed.  The taciturn ways of Tarths would be a mystery to him, bold lion of Lannister that he was.  She wanted to give him comfort--but the truth was, she didn’t know how her father felt about Jaime.  In his scrawled letter, he hadn’t once addressed the news of their marriage.

“How long do we have on Tarth?” Brienne asked, hearing her voice go thin and anxious.  “Before we have to go to Casterly Rock?”

Jaime tightened his arm around her in a tender squeeze.

“As long as need be,” he said.  “After all, your father is the only family we have left.”

Brienne frowned.

“Your brother--”

“--is not my family.”

The words snapped under his breath, silencing any further question on the matter.  Brienne knew better than to press it. Enough uncertainty lay ahead for today, and this was neither the time nor place to talk about Tyrion.

“Land ho!” called the sailor from the crow’s nest.

The mists cleared like a curtain quickly drawn from a window. Brienne caught her breath.

The sea shone blue and danced with light--so brightly, it seemed that the sun threw crystals onto a bed of sapphires.  But these jewels were base and inferior to the Isle of Tarth; the land rose up in lush green majesty, throned against sky and sea like a king in his hall.  Rolling seas of verdant hill and meadow crested into mountains and high cliffs.  The silver marble towers of Evenfall crowned the southwestern slopes while a line of sand and rock glittered white underneath, halo-like. A thousand memories came flooding back to Brienne; the fresh smell of mountain flowers, the whispered rush of waterfalls, keeping up with her father’s long strides through the castle corridors.  There were darker memories too, but these were brushstrokes of her past--like shadows that creased the sun-soaked hills.  Colors blurred together, tears welling in Brienne’s eyes.  She blinked them away.

Jaime must have been holding his breath, too, for now he released it.  She felt his whiskered kiss on the back of her neck.

“It seems that spring has favored Tarth, my lady.”

  
-

They docked at port.  A crowd parted for them, eyes wide and mouths whispering.  Shipyard men stopped their work, craning their necks to catch a glimpse. Fishwives dressed in brown skirts clucked to one other like hens.  Small children jumped up and down, caught up in the excitement even though they were too young to know Brienne when she left.  By all reason none of the small folk should have recognized Jaime--they had never so much as seen a Lannister--yet they knew exactly who he was.

_“They used to call him Kingslayer.”_

_“I heard he charged a dragon!”_

_“That was before he joined with the North.  Now he’s known as the Lion who saved Winterfell.”_

“Songs have traveled far,” Jaime murmured, stealing a wary glance at the crowd.

Brienne saddled a horse for two to ride.  “We’d best be off, and quickly,” she said.  “Or word will reach Evenfall of our arrival before we do.”

She rode in front with Jaime pressed close behind her, his left arm hooked around her waist.  As they clopped through the market children ran after them, begging for stories of ice men and dragons until their mothers scolded them away.  At the edge of town, the road crumbled to a dirt path. The smell of tide and harbor fell away, and the air turned sweet and brimmed with birdsong.  It was a silent, reverent ride as they trotted along the path which wound through forest, down into warm foothills and green valleys.  Brienne drank in the sight of so much color.  The overwhelming brightness slaked a thirst she didn’t know she had, parched as she was by the years-long monochrome of snow and darkness.

“Careful!” Jaime shouted.

Brienne reared up as a large bird scampered screaming across the path in front of them, its magnificent plumage fanned out in all shades of blue and green.

“What was _that?”_

Brienne threw him an incredulous look over her shoulder.

“Have you never seen a peacock?” she asked.  They were common on southern isles as pigeons in cities--so much so that she barely noticed them.

“Only plucked and roasted on a platter!” Jaime said, laughter dancing in his eyes as he gazed all around.  “Gods, this land is marvelous. Marvelous and beautiful.”

Brienne smiled, her pride swelling.  Tarth was beautiful, she knew, and especially so in the spring.  She was happy that Jaime loved it, too.   _Perhaps we will stay long enough to show him all of Tarth’s beauty._   She imagined lying next to Jaime in a sunny glade with a stream trickling nearby--or walking til moonrise along sandy stretches between sea and land, hand in hand. They could go to the forest inn and spend time with Ser Goodwin and Hydda, and listen to Copper Tongue play his merry songs.   _But first, we must make haste for Evenfall,_ Brienne thought, remembering her father.  She kicked more speed into their ride, and the horse broke into a light gallop.  

Castle walls and silvery towers loomed closer.  Brienne’s heart beat faster.  Even before she could make out the features of the guards, the portcullis winched upward with its familiar groan of steel on stone, painstakingly slow.  There stood her lord father, cloaked in his long sapphire robes and tall as ever.  Brienne dismounted.  Lord Selwyn ducked under the gate even before it cleared his head, rushing to take his daughter in his arms.  He embraced her fiercely.  She smiled into his shoulder, tears stinging her eyes.

“Brienne,” he said. “I wasn’t expecting you for months.”

His voice was the same--strident and deep.  His grip was the same--strong and sure.  She pulled away and studied him, looking for signs of change. There was perhaps more white than silver in his hair and beard, but the years hadn’t done nearly as much damage to him as they had to her.  His sight caught on her ruined left cheek, and a momentary grimace clouded his kind blue eyes.  He lifted a hand to the scar.  Brienne couldn’t be sure, but there was something about his touch that felt weakened.

“You are well, aren’t you?” she said, a tremor in her voice.  He blinked and lowered his hand.  “Your letter—I thought…”

“If you mean my writing, it was a fall,” he said dismissively.  “I injured my hand.  Nothing more.  Did you hasten your journey because you thought I was ill?”

“No,” she lied. “We simply...reconsidered our plans.”

At the word _we,_ the Evenstar finally looked past his daughter to the man standing behind her.

“Father,” Brienne said, stepping aside. “This is Ser Jaime Lannister.”

Jaime came forward slowly, looking up with caution. He bowed.

“I’m honored to meet you at last, Lord Selwyn.”

The Evenstar gave him an appraising look, his face long and serious.

“Ser Jaime,” he said. “I have heard much of you.”

It was a response that could mean anything, and Jaime seemed unsure how to parry it.

“Well,” he said at last. “It’s a luxury to be heard at all these days, isn’t it?”

This earned a peal of laughter from Lord Selwyn--brief and hollow, but a laugh nonetheless.

“Come,” he said. “We will feast tonight to celebrate your return.”

-

By duskfall the long tables of the Great Hall boasted pitchers of ale and plates piled high with food.  People trickled in from all over the isle--port town to forest to marble quarry in the north.  Ser Goodwin was there with his innkeeper wife Hydda, along with a small brood of orphans they had taken in.  The children giggled shyly to meet Brienne, running and ducking behind their mother’s skirts.

“You’ll be having a family soon, now that the war’s over,” Hydda said with a knowing grin.  “And I ‘spose you’re no longer our Brienne Tarth, but Brienne Lannister.”

“Well, no,” Brienne said.  She stole a sidelong glance at Jaime, who was deep in conversation with Ser Goodwin.  Each laughed over their cups.  “We’ve married, but I’m still a Tarth.”  When the moment had come to write their names in a book, Brienne had chosen to keep hers--for no other reason than it was the only one she had ever known.

The merriment continued.  Lively music filled the hall, courtesy of the whimsical 'cellist Copper Tongue--Brienne's favorite singer from her childhood.  A hearth burned in every corner.  Light danced on the walls and glowed on faces.  Knights that Brienne had known since childhood greeted her with warmth and gladness, all with families of their own.  

“Lord Selwyn gave every man leave to fight in the war if we so desired,” Ser Turnip said, “But most of us stayed to keep the peace at home and escort trade vessels between east and west.”

“And wisely done,” Brienne said. Had it not been for southern isles like Tarth and Estermont that had focused their efforts solely on trade, all of Westeros would be starving to death in the aftermath of war.

But despite Tarth’s lack of direct involvement, everyone had heard the tales--especially those of Ser Jaime Lannister.  Some pages and squires came to the head table shyly, others shoving through just to stand and gape before the Lion who saved Winterfell.  Evenfall’s guardsmen shooed them away back to their tables at the end of the hall, but even those knights stole glances of wonder and admiration, whispering to one another.

_“He traded his golden hand for a fitted blade of dragonglass.”_

_“That same arm that slew the Mad King slew a hundred White Walkers--more than anyone else!”_

_“Ser Jaime saved the North single-handedly.”_

The Evenstar was harder to impress.  Brienne marked the way his gaze lingered suspiciously on Jaime, how he frowned when Brienne had to cut his meat for him.

“She’s better at it than I am,” Jaime said with a jestful shrug.

Lord Selwyn was unamused.  He set to carving his own meal.

“I was surprised by the news of your marriage,” he said crisply.  “Most of all, to hear of it after the fact.”

Brienne’s chest tightened.  She had suspected some annoyance on her father’s part--it was considered a great affront for a man to marry a highborn lady without her lord father’s knowledge, much less consent.  But circumstances were different in the war.  He must have understood that much.

 _You weren’t there,_ she thought.   _We couldn’t wait.  We all might have died._  But the Evenstar looked to Jaime for an answer.

“Ravens were difficult to come by, my lord,” Jaime said.

“Really--at Winterfell?”

“Father,” Brienne said under her breath.  He heard the reprimand but did not acknowledge it.  Instead, he waited while Jaime struggled to conjure a response that would please him--a battle he would surely lose.

“We have heard tales of your valiance in the Great War, Ser Jaime.”

The soft accented voice came from Sunyi Qin, seated next to Lord Selwyn.  At first glance, the YiTish warrior who occupied the master-at-arms position looked small and rather childlike next to the towering Evenstar.  Yet she was middle-aged and formidable, caped in sapphire and donned in fighting leathers with three shiny daggers at her hip.  Her jet black hair was streaked with silver and pulled back sharply.  She had a glass eye which didn’t move, and a good eye which sparkled with warm liveliness.

“Overblown tales, no doubt,” Jaime replied cautiously.

“There’s always truth in songs,” Sunyi said, prompting him to speak further.

Jaime stole a nervous glance at the Evenstar, weighing whether it was wise to talk of heroics.  It didn’t matter that he was the Lion who saved Winterfell to the rest of the hall--he was burning under a glass at this table, and talking of himself might burn him further.

“How is it in the Stormlands?”  Brienne said briskly, changing the subject.

Her father sighed and pushed away his plate, as if needing more room for such discussion.

“A mess, like anywhere else,” he replied.  “But Tarth has fared well. Now it is our duty to help.”

Due to its geography and chosen neutrality, Tarth had not suffered the discomforts of other houses.  But such good fortune came with responsibilities--for the last few years Lord Selwyn had found himself directing trade between Westeros and Essos and now rebuilding efforts.  Tarth’s marble quarry was of even greater importance than before to the mainland and its many crumbling halls.

“Acting as Lord Paramount of the Stormlands was a burden I never thought I would bear,” the Evenstar said. “But there it is.”

“That may change with the rise of House Baratheon.”

Lord Selwyn blinked and frowned at Jaime, as if he had forgotten his presence entirely.

“It only makes sense now that Gendry is legitimized, he will reclaim Storm’s End,” Jaime explained.  He meant it as helpful speculation, Brienne knew--but her father did not see it as such. Slowly, the Evenstar put his silverware into his plate and folded his large hands on the table, turning to Jaime.

“Lord Gendry has more experience smithing and swinging a hammer than he does with rule,” he said with exaggerated patience. “I suspect he will want to focus his efforts on rebuilding his family and Storm’s End—which has been abandoned for years—before he assumes command over other houses.  Names aren’t everything, Lord Lannister.”

Jaime stared down the length of the table, deflated.  Brienne shot her father a fierce look and opened her mouth to speak.

Sunyi Qin beat her to it.

“Ser Jaime doesn’t suggest that House Baratheon take back the seat of the Stormlands, my lord--just that everyone has a part to play in the healing of Westeros.”  
Her voice was smooth as silk, tinted darkly with her eastern tones--and even, Brienne thought curiously, some note of reprimand.  “In Yi Ti we have also started again after great wars,” she continued.  “And we well know that the hardest part of restoring order is working _together.”_

The last word was aimed directly at Lord Selwyn and spoken so sharply, it bordered on disrespect.  But the Evenstar grew sheepish, seemingly tamed by his small master-at-arms.

“Of course,” he conceded.

Brienne threw a look of thanks to Sunyi, who gave her the most subtle of nods.

“On the note of starting again,” Lord Selwyn said, less sternly, “What news of our King?”

Brienne and Jaime exchanged a glance.

“Grieving,” Jaime said. “As many are.  But he will make it through, for the sake of his people.”

“And for his child,” Brienne added softly.

King Jon Snow had shrugged off the real name of his birth, giving it instead to his newborn son. _Aegon Targaryen._  The child was a dragon born amidst ash and smoke, meant to survive this war.  His mother was not.

Queen Daenerys was supposed to stay on Dragonstone.  She was meant to stay safe while Jon fought.  As always, she had other plans.  She left her infant child with a wet nurse, traveling south with no retinue but Drogon--her last dragon, weak and dying.  The Night King had dispersed armies throughout Westeros and marched the largest of them on King’s Landing.  By the time his ice dragon and army reached the Red Keep, Daenerys was there--sitting on the Iron Throne as much a queen as she had ever been. _“Dracarys,”_ she uttered one last time, and Drogon bathed the throne room in flame--it caught on barrel after barrel until it burst on the wildfire stash under the city.  King’s Landing was a storm of green fire that nothing survived, living or undead.  The war was over.

Bran Stark the Three-Eyed Raven had seen it all.  As soon as the tale was once-told, it was a million times told; the Song of the Dragon Queen made its way through Westeros as waves on the sea.

“And you--you saved the North? Didn’t you, Ser Jaime!”

A few boys had returned to the head table unnoticed, their skinny elbows hanging on the edge of the table as they listened to the story.

“Tell us how you saved Winterfell!”

The knights were too much in their cups to pull the boys away--if anything, they encouraged it with murmurings which rose higher and louder.  Soon, the entire hall was begging Jaime to regale them with battle stories.  At long last, he stood to indulge them.  A hush fell.

“It was cold,” Jaime said, staring down at the stone floor.  His words echoed clumsily through the silent room.  “I slew only three White Walkers--not a hundred. And I did not save Winterfell single-handedly”—he gestured with his stump and smiled grimly—“as poetic as that would be given my circumstances, it is a lie.  The truth is, had it not been for Lady Brienne there would have been no Winterfell to save.”

At the mention of her name, Brienne felt her face go hot. Her heart beat faster and her stomach fluttered.  Hundreds of eyes were on her.  She avoided them and cast her glance down to the table at her hands, fingers clutching her water goblet.

Jaime continued his speech.

“She slew a giant wight, a bear wight and an entire army of dead things to guard Sansa Stark, Queen in the North.  You won’t hear these tales from her, of course--she’s far too humble, and singers prefer to wail the battle feats of overglorified knights.  And yet Lady Brienne of Tarth is the truest knight that ever lived.”

She lifted her gaze to meet his.  For all the times before when she had thought him lovely, they paled in comparison to now.  In the softening hearthlight of her father's hall, Jaime was too handsome for truth.

“Brienne saved me long before the great war even started.  She was the fire that kept me alive, and she is the fire that burns in my heart.  I thank the gods she was made to cross paths with mine--a path which otherwise would have ended long ago.”

By then Brienne knew she was as red-faced as she had ever been or was ever like to be.  But Jaime sat down, took her face in his hand and kissed her for all to see. The hall burst into cheers, hands slapping on knees and silver banging on tables.

 _“Lady Brienne!”_ they chanted, over and again. _“Lady Brienne!”_

Jaime broke the kiss and smiled at her.  Brienne sat bewildered, her insides swirling with embarrassment yielding to love, disbelief giving way to something like pride.  She glanced to her father.

All sternness had disappeared from his long face.  The Evenstar now looked on Jaime in stunned admiration and respect.

-

Some hours later the hall cleared, and Jaime retired to leave Brienne alone with her father.  They talked, unraveling the tightly-spun ball of years that had passed between them. But in the dimming light of hearth embers and candleflame she saw a weariness in him that she had not seen before.  His face was more lined.  His hand shook as he lifted his cup to his lips.

“How did you fall?” Brienne asked cautiously.

He finished his sip, put down his cup and averted his gaze.

“It was in the night. I was coming down the narrow steps of the south tower. I have always prided myself on being able to find my way around Evenfall even in darkness, but eyes and reflexes do get old.”  He sighed and brought himself to look her in the eye again.  “But still. I should have seen better than I did at the beginning of this evening.”

It was an apology, and heartfelt. Brienne reached for his hand across the table.

“I see that he loves you,” her father continued. “I see that you love him. Your mother wanted that for you, and it is more than I could have hoped for.” He squeezed her hand. “I am so happy for you, Brienne.”

“Thank you,” she whispered.

His thumb smoothed over a thick scar which roped around to the inside of her palm.

“You do have more than your share of wounds.”

“So does Jaime,” she said.

Her father nodded, contemplating.

“I suppose you will live at Casterly Rock?” He said it briskly, but not enough to mask the question.  It made Brienne’s heart ache.

“I wish we could stay on Tarth,” she said. “But Jaime has no family left.”

Her father frowned, withdrew her hand from hers.  He took in a breath as if to challenge the statement, then seemed to think better of it.  He sighed.

“The kingdom is broken, and with it many families,” he said. “Some have been erased entirely, so one shouldn’t expect...” His words drifted off.  Brienne waited.  Her father was one to finish sentences.  Now tension curled in the air.  Lord Selwyn stared into the candleflame for what seemed an age, then looked to his daughter again. Amusement twinkled in his eyes.  “It occurs to me that perhaps your Lannister husband is charmed. I don’t even remember the last time Evenfall hosted a public event which didn’t end in disaster.”

Brienne smiled.  So did he.  They both laughed for a good long while, her heart glowing.  It gave her courage.  She took in a deep breath.

“Father…there is more news.”

He waited while she stammered.  Tears begged at her eyes, and the words rushed out on a breath.

“I am with child.”

Her father sat still for a moment. The world was so silent, Brienne could almost hear the stars wheel across the sky.

The Evenstar’s eyes lighted with pride, and an even broader smile spread across his face.

-

Brienne closed the door to her bedchamber. “I told him, and he’s so pleased—“

She stopped mid-sentence when she saw Jaime sitting upright in her bed, reading a book worn at the spine. The large wooden chest at the foot of her bed was open.

Spilling out of it were her dolls and embroidery from so many years past.

“Have you made yourself quite comfortable?”

“Indeed,” Jaime replied with a sly grin. “I found candles and bedclothes--”

“And more besides,” she said with mock annoyance, picking up her things and tucking them back into the open chest.

“--but for a moment I thought I had entered a young Sansa Stark’s room instead of Brienne of Tarth’s,” Jaime said.  He turned the book over, raising his eyebrows impishly.  The cover’s colors had faded and the edges were tattered, but Brienne instantly recognized the image of a knight holding a beautiful maiden in a passionate embrace.  “ _Florian and Jonquil_ was a book well-loved by you, my lady.”

She shot him a chiding look, but could not suppress her smile. She looked down at the dolls in her hands--the Warrior and the Maiden. The Warrior had gaping chips in his armor, and the Maiden’s dress folds were caked in grime.

“I should throw these out.”

“No--don’t,” Jaime said. “We’ll give them to our daughter.”

“We might have a son.”

He shrugged and grinned. “Then we’ll try again.”

She smiled and turned away to undress.  Even after two months of marriage she was still shy—they had enjoyed little privacy since their wedding night, and in those moments rarely any light.  Candles and fire tar were precious during the day-long darkness of the North and used sparingly.  Even the moon and stars hid behind thick blankets of winter cloud.  But tonight Brienne’s bedchamber was well-lit.  A hearth burned, and candles flickered all around.  Jaime must have asked for them, because she had not.

“You said your father is happy of our news?”

“And relieved,” she said, pulling a night tunic of plain linen over her head.  “I’m sure there were times he thought he would never have grandchildren.”

“He even finds it tolerable that I am the father?”

Brienne turned back around.  Jaime’s face was creased with doubt and worry.

“Did you not see,” she said, climbing into bed and inching down so that her face was level with his, “Did you not see that after you finished speaking tonight--he looked at you as though you had hung the sun and the moon?”

Light danced in his green eyes.  His smile melted her.

“I would never presume to hang suns and moons in the presence of a Tarth,” he said.  “I am a mere lion of Lannister.”

Brienne pressed her lips to his.

“But you are mine,” she whispered. “As I am yours.”

He kissed her back, curling his arm around her hip and pulling her body tightly against his own.  A warmth stirred within her--a fluttering in her breast and a deep ache, further down.  Their lips unlocked.  His eyes were dark with lust.  His hand went to the lacing of her tunic and pulled a string.  A corner of linen fell away. Brienne caught a glimpse of her bear scars, the largeness of muscle which overwhelmed her small breasts, despite having swelled some from pregnancy.

She tensed and nudged him away, covering herself. He studied her curiously.

“The candles,” she said.  “I’d rather it be dark.”

He shifted restlessly, propping himself up on one elbow. “ Then we have a problem, because I’d rather it be light.”

For a few heartbeats, they looked at each other in silence.

“It’s just strange, being together here in the room I grew up in,” Brienne said.

Jaime raised his brow.  “Stranger than a room in Winterfell?”

“That was no strange place at all.”

Winterfell was where their paths converged, their oaths entwined.  The steel they wore on their hips was forged from a single sword of Winterfell, and it was in Winterfell that their bodies had finally come together as one.  The love they made in that northerly castle was fervent but sacred as a promise, and so it was small wonder they had conceived a child within its walls in such brief time.  She closed her eyes and could almost feel the thick furs and smell the tall pines covered in snow, taste the cold on his skin.  Now she opened her eyes and saw Jaime’s burning with questions.

“Tell me why,” he pressed.

She glanced around the room--the stone walls, the mirror, the wardrobe of ill-fitting dresses that hung inside.  Ghosts of the past returned, and with them her girl’s heart and all the cares and longing of her troubled adolescence.

They seldom talked of the past--his or hers.  Now Brienne told him everything.  She told him of the early deaths of her mother and her siblings, her father’s grief and his long withdrawal from the world.  She told him about Septa Roelle, the tears she cried, the horror of seeing herself outgrow dress after dress, her features ever uglier and more mannish in the mirror.

“You’ll find truth in your looking glass, not on the tongues of men--that’s what Roelle told me,” Brienne said.  “There was nothing I could do.  So I fought.”

Jaime held her closer, and Brienne met his gaze.  He stared deeply into her eyes, as if searching for a ship on the sea’s horizon.  She saw her own face in the looking glass of his eyes and flushed, self-conscious.  He traced the blush with his fingers as it traveled neck to cheek.

“You’re beautiful.”

“I’m not—“ she protested, but he pressed his mouth to hers.

“You are,” he murmured.

He kissed one cheek, then the other.  He kissed her forehead, the scar on her lip.  He kissed her nose which had been broken so many times Brienne had lost count. He kissed the places where she was smooth, and he kissed the places where she was rough and broken.  He kissed where her bones were straight and where they had healed in knots.  In between his kisses he whispered _beautiful_ , moving down her body in prayer.  At long last, he came to her breasts.  She allowed him to lift her tunic over her head, exposing her nakedness to the light--and his lips.  Brienne released a ragged sigh as his mouth found one tender nipple and then the other, and he breathed a trail down her belly until he reached the soft, silky flesh under her navel.  He kissed her where her womb was, where their child grew inside her--and he continued down and down, to the heat between her legs.

Brienne gasped.

He used his tongue, his teeth, his fingers.  His breath was hot and it was cool, and Brienne bit into the pillow to stifle her moans.  The ocean washed the cliffs outside.  Her pleasure washed up in waves, building and building.  She twined her fingers tightly in his hair and squeezed her eyes shut.  She saw stars shoot behind them, her world convulsing.

She was still breathless and weak when he hovered over her.   _“You are beautiful.”_   He kissed her, and she tasted herself on his lips.   _“So beautiful.”_   He pushed himself inside her.  It was pleasure on top of pleasure, almost too perfect to bear. _“Don’t close your eyes. Not now.”_    His eyes swept over her bare body in hungry desperation.  The bright firelight cast him golden, every muscle flexed and glowing--god-like as she had never seen him before.  He was watching her, and she was watching him.  All her life Brienne had cringed away from her looking glass.  Now Jaime was the mirror.  And it was in his eyes, his pleasure, his beauty that Brienne saw herself--and she saw that she was beautiful.

He shuddered.  His handsome face contracted in pained pleasure.  Brienne rose to meet him, legs wrapping around his hips and arms around his neck.  Their bodies were still joined together.  She felt the flooding warmth of his seed trickling down her thighs, her own tears streaming from the corners of her eyes.

“I love you,” she breathed.

He smiled, heaving and trembling.  Hair hung in wet blades around his face.  His fingers curled tightly in her hair.  "I love you."  

The night turned.  They lay in hushed afterglow of their lovemaking, dewed with sweat and kissed by the cool night breeze.  Sleep would come soon.  Brienne listened to the ocean breathe on the cliffs.

“Jaime.”

“Brienne?”

“Does the ocean sound different in Casterly Rock?”

He held his breath as he listened, considering.

“I suppose it does. It’s softer here.”  He paused, and she heard him smile.  “Tarth subtlety.”

“Really?  I always thought it was quite loud.”

“No.  It roars more at the Rock.  Like a lion.” He nuzzled her, and playfully nipped at her earlobe.

“What does the Rock look like?”

He yawned.

“Big. Rocky.”

A moment passed.

“How does it smell?”

“Brienne.”  He kissed her neck.  “Sleep, my lady.”

Jaime’s breathing deepened while the ocean crashed on the rocks, soft as a lullaby.  Brienne ran her hand over her belly below her navel.  She had not yet started to show, but in such moments of absolute stillness she could feel something happening--a slow and gentle tightening in her womb, like a key turning silk in a lock.   _Jaime’s child and mine.  A lion._

She imagined an ocean that roared like a lion, and when she closed her eyes she tried to see the towering rock of Casterly--powerful and leaning into the raging sea. Their children would clack wooden swords together against that majestic backdrop.  They would grow tall and strong, bearing the Lannister name proudly into the future.

It was with some sadness that Brienne realized her children would not carry on her own name.  That was the way of the world.  But as she drifted off to sleep, she remembered her father’s unfinished words.

“The kingdom is broken. And with it many families, some erased entirely…”

She dreamt she was walking with a pail of blood through two hills where two orchards grew.  A lion lay sleeping on one hill.  A setting sun sank below the other hill, a crescent moon rising.  The trees were all dying.  She knew she couldn’t tend to both hills with one pail.  The lion roared, and so she went to him.  As he lapped thirstily from her pail of blood, the trees around him strengthened, sprouting green leaves and firm fruit.  But when Brienne turned back around, the trees on the other hill had withered up into twists.  The sun and moon were gone.  Only a blood sky remained.

She bolted up in bed, her skin cold and clammy as a toad’s.

“A dream,” Jaime murmured and soothed her back down to her pillow. “You're safe. We're safe.”

He rubbed her back with his stump.  Brienne’s heart slowed.  They both had been plagued by nightmares in the aftermath of the war.

But this had been no nightmare about war. _Lion...blood...moon and sun. Dying trees._

It had been about family.


	21. Love's Tender Spring, P2 (EPILOGUE)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne and Jaime talk about names.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have tissues, maybe.

-

Brienne

-

Springtime swelled on Tarth, everything alive and kissed by sunlight. Flowers budded on trees, clusters of violets sprang up in the fields. The waves that crashed ashore felt warmer. Even as her own belly began to swell with her unborn child, Brienne marveled at how light she was with no heavy armor and furs, no burdens of war to weigh her down. On Tarth, there was peace and quietude. And there was time.

Those first few days, she and Jaime soaked in stillness. They went riding into the foothills where they lazed all day in the tall grass and yielded their bodies to the sun. They talked of small things. They shared the shapes they saw in puffed clouds against the sea-blue sky. Sometimes they just listened to the wind and the birds. When evening fell, they made their way back to Evenfall. They ate heartily. Food was available to them now they had not seen in years--red berries, green snap peppers, bread that wasn’t stale but baked from fresh-ground wheat.

When they were restless for adventure, they went sailing. The sapphire waters below Evenfall were not entirely serene, and the wind was strong. Jaime’s sail kept flapping and snapping like a bird in distress--but Brienne had known this wind and water since childhood and pointed her bow so that the sail caught well and sure.

“Do you still think the ocean roars more fiercely at the Rock?” she said as she deftly steered her boat around Jaime’s.

He struggled with the main sheet wrapped around his arm.

“Of course it does,” he said. “It’s just--blowing from a different direction here, that’s all.”

The wind gusted again, and Jaime’s boat jibed involuntarily. He ducked just in time to avoid the thick wooden boom from swinging into his head, but the sudden movement caused his boat to capsize. He fell backwards into the water with an ungraceful splash.

“Jaime!” she shouted.

He burst from the water like a seal, his hair slicked dark.

“I think the wind is stronger on Tarth--it is the Stormlands after all.” He said it as if it had been his own idea, then gave her a helpless smile.

They sparred together. Knights and their squires would line the yard, watching with wide eyes and big grins and betting on one or the other. And, of course, the youngling squires lit up in excitement whenever Jaime Lannister gave them a sparring lesson. Master-at-arms Sunyi Qin appreciated the help. She had many other duties, serving as a sort of advisor to the Evenstar. Ser Goodwin had also done so in his time, but with Sunyi it was different--rarely was Lord Selwyn seen without her by this side.

Brienne’s father had even warmed to Jaime, accepting him as family and respecting him as an equal in the political realm. Together, the lords of Lannister and Tarth made strides in planning the rebuilding of the Goldroad from west to east; transport of goods had been difficult since the near-demolishment of Westeros’s infrastructure in the war, but the Sapphire Isle worked like a heart, pumping blood to the rest of the mainland in the form of marble and sustenance. _The sun shines, and all will be well in spring._

But even the springtime was never without its rain.

On the glimmering heel of sunlight the storms rushed in, casting dark shadows over Evenfall. It was in those dreary moments that Brienne became aware of the cold dread rising in her chest--ever present, and growing stronger as the day came closer that she and Jaime were due to depart for Casterly Rock.

She didn’t want to leave.

Jaime sensed her melancholy and did his best to lighten it. On their last full day, he teased her lightly over breakfast, nipping her with kisses and chattering on wanting to explore the forest one last time. She surrendered a smile to him and agreed. The forest was her favorite part of Tarth.

They saddled a horse to ride and made for the hills. Jaime sat in front and held the reins, insistent on exploring every gods-forsaken path in the wood.

“What’s down this way?”

“That’s not even a path, that’s a pile of trampled leaves,” Brienne said sternly, though she was trying not to laugh.

“Trampled for good cause, I’d wager,” Jaime said in a cocksure tone. He gave the horse a light kick and pressed them forward into the cool darkness.

“Jaime, we should turn around--we’ll get lost and be late for our own farewell dinner.”

“How can you get lost on an island?”

“Quite easily, in fact--”

She stopped speaking. The dark wood opened to a clearing. Sun filtered through the leafy canopy of tall trees which fringed a clear blue pool. Steam rose lazily from the water in thick and beckoning clouds. _Hot springs._

Jaime turned to her, a mischievous light dancing in his green eyes.

Brienne hissed at the idea and scolded him--it was broad daylight and would be embarrassing if they were happened upon--but it made no matter; Jaime had already dismounted and was stripping off his breeches and tunic. He looked to her, naked as his name day, wearing only a boyish grin and the warmth of sunlight.

“Well, my lady?”

Brienne swallowed. Her gaze drifted downward, his body chiseled and golden hair dazzled by the sun. She looked over her shoulder, then eased off the horse and removed her clothes.

“It’s not Harrenhal,” Jaime said with a deep sigh as they settled into the water.. “But it will have to do.”

Brienne smiled. Tarth was a garden of ripe wonder whereas Harrenhal was a graveyard, she and Jaime both knew it--but there was something special about their first bath together all the same. There was even a beauty in it. Brienne remembered how she had covered her nakedness when Jaime entered the bath, how he had steeled his heart with cynicism and stinging quips. That all melted away in the steam.

If there were any place to talk of the gnawing in her heart now, it would be here in the warmth of this water. And yet how could she? _We leave on the morrow._ Talking of her reluctance to leave would be selfish and cruel, and to tarry on Tarth would weigh a heavier burden on the Rock than it already had.

“Well, my lady,” Jaime said, casually leaning his head against the mossy bank. “Are you looking forward to our journey west tomorrow?”

She bit her lip.

“Of course.”

“That makes one of us, then,” he said. “I’m afraid Casterly Rock will disappoint after our month here--it’s not nearly so beautiful.”

“I’m sure it is.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s not.”

He sighed a deep hum, looking around at the forest glade.

“We should spend every winter here, on Tarth.”

“Really?”

Brienne’s heart lifted at the idea. Jaime smiled and scooted closer to her. Under the water his hand found the shy swell of her belly.

“Really,” he said. “After all--our second son will be Evenstar one day.”

She considered it as his lips pressed on hers. A Lannister Evenstar. She pulled away from the kiss.

“It’s possible my father could marry again, have new heirs of his own. He's not even sixty. There’s still time.”

Jaime looked thoughtful at this, then shook his head.

“No, I don’t think there is time.”

“Why not?”

He shrugged.

“Because he’s in love with his master-at-arms, that’s why.”

Brienne didn’t understand.

“My father...and Sunyi?”

“Of course.”

Brienne stared at him. Jaime returned her incredulous look.

“Gods, you really haven’t noticed, have you?”

She stared straight ahead, stupefied. Slowly, she realized it was true. The way he listened to her. How they laughed together. There was an intimacy in the way they talked that Brienne had wondered at--how could she have been so naive to miss it?

Jaime laughed, delighted with himself to have seen something about Brienne’s home that she hadn’t.

“Certainly it’s no secret,” he said. “The entire castle must have caught on by now. No need for them to marry I suppose.”

_They can't have children._

There was little need for marriage apart from forging house alliances and protecting children. Sunyi appeared young at first glance, but she was near fifty if she wasn't there already--a maturity that had likely appealed to Lord Selwyn; past efforts to match him with a new young bride had always failed just as miserably as his daughter’s early betrothals.

And yet there would be no more Tarth children.

“I am the last Tarth heir,” she said softly.

“Of course you’re not,” Jaime said. “Just wait. We’ll give your father twenty grandchildren.”

“Twenty?!”

He shrugged in acquiescence.

“Ten, then.”

“Jaime Lannister, it sounds as if you would have me chained to our marriage bed.”

“Not a bad idea at all,” he murmured.

He pressed in close and kissed her again, moving his stump down her thigh. Brienne tried to lose herself in him and the warmth of his body, but her mind wandered. She pressed a hand against his chest and unlocked her lips from his.

“What if we gave our children a choice between our two names? They could be Lannisters or Tarths. And the eldest Tarth could return to rule as Evenstar.”

Jaime sighed. He fiercely scrubbed his fingers through his wet hair, squinting at the suggestion.

“They should all share one family name, shouldn’t they?”

It was a fair point. Brienne looked down, at a loss for ideas. He nudged her.

“We could combine our names. Tarthnister. Lannistarth.”

“Those are the most ghastly names I’ve ever heard.”

“I’m only joking,” he said, splashing water at her. It was a weak attempt to make her smile, and so she smiled weakly. He sighed again.

“Brienne. It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it does matter.”

“Why? If our child whose name is Lannister holds Tarth, he--or she--will still be a Tarth.”

Brienne looked at him quizzically.

“Even if you had taken my name, you would still be Brienne of Tarth, even if Brienne Lannister of Tarth. But as it is, you are Brienne Tarth of Tarth.”

“No,” she said. “I don’t think you understand how it works. No one says it like that.”

“Yes, they do. I am Jaime Lannister of Casterly Rock, therefore you are Brienne Tarth of Tarth.”

“No one _here_ says it like that. I am Brienne of Tarth and I am Brienne Tarth, but never Brienne Tarth of Tarth--that just sounds stupid.”

He blinked at her, his brow creased deeply in confusion.

“‘Tarth’ and ‘of Tarth’ are the same family name, just used in slightly different circumstances,” she explained impatiently--though even she found the difference difficult to articulate. “Regardless, had I taken your name I would no longer be Brienne of Tarth in the way that I could claim Tarth as my house name. I would simply be Brienne Lannister.”

“Simply,” he repeated, his face dark and sullen. He stared grimly into the water.

For the first time, it dawned on her.

“Jaime...do you begrudge me for not taking your name?”

He grimaced, looking up to the sky in pained contemplation.

“‘Begrudge’...isn’t a very nice word.”

“You do begrudge me.”

A heavy moment passed. He pressed his lips together, then looked her in the eye.

“Yes,” he admitted. “Now that you mention it--I do.”

Brienne felt a rush of anger.

“But you have no right to--I’m the last of my line.”

“So am I.“

“You’re not, you have Tyrion.”

“I do _not_ have him, he doesn’t count.”

“Of course he counts, he’s your brother, Jaime--”

“Need I remind you that he murdered my father and my--”

He stopped and turned sharply away.

 _Your sister,_ Brienne finished silently.

Cersei was long dead. Jaime never said her name, never so much as mentioned her existence. But somehow, she lived as a shadow which sometimes darkened his face.  It was in those moments when she haunted Jaime that she haunted Brienne as well.

“Do you pine for her?”

The words came out in a small voice--so quickly and stupidly, they blurred together as one. Jaime blinked at her, not seeming to have understood. He was off somewhere else.

“What?”

The sun still shone golden. The water was warm and the birds sang sweetly in the trees--but somehow, their happy moment in the spring had turned cold and bitter.

“Nothing. Let’s go--I’m feeling cold.”

-

They rode back to Evenfall. Rainclouds gathered thick and blotted out the sun, much like their lingering quarrel.  Brienne dealt with her anger in the back of the saddle. She was angry at Jaime for not making a simple concession that their second son could take her name. She was angry at her father for putting the responsibility of family legacy all on her.

Yet a child of a great house taking his mother’s minor house name was almost unheard of. And her father had made the concession that she could marry for love--wasn’t it only fair that he settle for nothing less himself?

Brienne was torn and helpless. How she hated that feeling. She wanted to draw a sword on it and vanquish it--but such troubles were not so easily assuaged. Peacetime was supposed to be the easy part, full of growth and nurturing like the spring. Brienne had secretly longed to bask in the glow of motherhood with a child in her arms, her loving husband by her side. That balmy vision was now obscured by the politics of houses and the stubbornness of men.

She was still sullen by the time they reached Evenfall. They entered the gates and found a young page whacking large bags of corn outside the stable door with a tourney sword. Brienne dismounted, frowning at him.

“What are you doing?”

The boy cowered and stepped aside. “Practicing?”

She ignored him as she led the horse to her stall and unsaddled her. Jaime tried to help, but he was slow at buckles and knots. She finished his work for him. He followed her out.

“Plenty of time to spare before the farewell dinner--”

“I don’t even want to go,” she mumbled.

Brienne just wanted to be alone--without her husband, without her father.

She swung open the door and stepped out into the light.

“CAREFUL M’LADY!”

Brienne yelped as she tripped over tumbled bags of spilled corn. Jaime dove in front of her, catching her fall as she landed soft on top of him.

“Are you all right?” he said, eyes wild and afraid. He helped her to stand.

“I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

She nodded.

Jaime shot a fierce look to the child with the sword.

“What in Seven Hells do you think you’re doing, boy?” he hissed.

The child winced, eyes wide as chicken eggs.

“Sorry, Ser.” he said. “Master Sunyi Qin says I need to strengthen my sword arm because it’s weak.”

“Well you won’t get much stronger hitting bags of corn,” Jaime said. “Those don’t fight back. Why don’t you go find someone to spar with?”

“No one wants to spar with me,” the boy said miserably, looking down at the ground. “I’m that terrible.”

Jaime contemplated him a moment. He sighed.

“Come on then.”

He took the child to the sparring yard. Brienne followed. She watched as they struck blows, parrying back and forth. The boy really was terrible. _He likely won’t make it to be a squire._  But Jaime was patient and persistent, giving him suggestions and telling him to try again.

At one point, Jaime paused. He cocked his head, regarding his sparring partner with a studious curiosity.

“Ser?”

“Do me a favor and try with your left hand.”

The boy did as he was bid. His strikes improved massively, like it was night and day.

Jaime laughed.

“There you are, then. You’re not bad at all, you’re just left-handed. But that doesn’t mean you should stop training your right arm--you never know when you might need it.”

He patted the beaming boy on his back and sent him along. Brienne couldn’t help but smile, her heart warmed by the scene.

_Jaime will be a good father, no matter what our children’s names are._

Wasn’t that all that really mattered in the end? Even at their welcome dinner a month before, her father had said himself that names weren’t everything. A bitter pang rose sharp within, and Brienne swallowed it as she realized perhaps even then, Lord Selwyn had known and accepted the fact that his own name would soon disappear into obscurity.

“Brienne?”

She snapped from her contemplation. She followed Jaime’s voice into the armory. He had gone to return the sparring weapons, but now stood at the far back in dimness, a single shaft of light beaming down from the high window. Brienne traced his gaze to where it fixed on an illuminated oaken shield.

The shield was painted with an elm tree and shooting star, and far too large for most men to bear. In the darkest moments of Brienne’s adolescence she would hide in the greater darkness of the armory, tracing the shooting star and dreaming of another place. Even now, with its paint more chipped and faded than ever, the shield possessed an ethereal beauty.

“Is this...what I think it is?” Jaime asked, gazing on the relic as if it were the rarest jewel in the world.

“Yes,” Brienne said. “It is.”

He looked up at her with soft reverence, and he knew.

Tarth was no great house such as Lannister. But Tarth had kept warm the blood of the legendary knight Ser Duncan the Tall.

“How?”

“My great-grandfather.”

Brienne’s father had told her the truth of it late one night after dinner, releasing it all as if truth were a heavy weight he had borne too long. He seemed to have a lot on his mind lately that he wanted to unravel, and this was the greatest secret of them all. _But not so great a secret as it was once was,_ he said. _Enough time has passed._

The shield glimmered in the stream of sunlight. Brienne bent and picked it up gently. It was heavy, but it felt good. She felt a strength and oneness with the oak as if it were part of her.

Jaime stared, wonder glowing soft over his face.

“I see it...I see it so clearly now. But how did I not see it before?”

The door groaned open.

Blinding light flooded the armory, framing a dark figure--a great hulk cloaked in long robes and silhouetted black against the harsh brightness. He loomed closer and pulled back his hood.

“Maester Toby,” Brienne said in surprise. It was strange to see him in this setting amongst shields and swords.

“The knights told me you were here,” the maester said. His plump face was kind and honest. But underneath the kindliness was a clenched jaw and eyes that flickered nervously.

“What is it?”

He paused.

“I am bid to tell you...your father will not be present at the farewell dinner tonight.”

Unease stirred deep in her belly.

“Not present?”

It was her father’s insistence that they have a farewell.

“But we’re leaving tomorrow,” Jaime said. “It may be a year before we see him next.”

“His lordship knows and regrets it. But he...is not feeling well.”

_Not feeling well._

Fear plunged into Brienne’s heart like a cold dagger. The maester turned down his gaze, mumbling something about a fleeting spring malady. Brienne knew better. She had known better ever since she received her father’s letter at Winterfell.

She pushed past the maester, through the armory door and across the yard. She heard Jaime behind her, running and calling her name. But she rushed ahead, heart pounding in her chest. She bounded the tower steps two at a time and ran down the corridor to the lord’s apartments just as the tall door opened.

Sunyi Qin emerged, her face a mask of tears. Her gaze froze on Brienne’s. She stiffened, and for a moment she even looked afraid.

“Sunyi,” Brienne said. “What is wrong with my father?”

Sunyi said nothing. She held her breath, showing no change in expression but for the welling of tears in her good eye.

“I know that you know,” Brienne pressed. “Tell me, please. I won’t leave Tarth until I know the truth.”

Sunyi blinked. Tears ran down her cheek in rivulets.  Her shoulders crumpled.

“Your father. He is dying.”

Heaviness closed over Brienne’s heart like a tight fist. She shut her eyes.

“There’s no cure for it,” Sunyi forced out between her tears, and then the words came gushing. “Maester Toby has tried everything. We have even had healers from the east...oh Brienne, he didn’t want to tell you. He knows you have another life waiting for you at Casterly Rock--he wants you to go and live it.”

“How long?” Brienne managed at last, her voice hollow.

“A few months. Maybe a year.”

They stood in leaden silence a few heartbeats longer. Sunyi apologized and excused herself, leaving Brienne to stand alone before her father’s door.

The clouds had finally opened outside. Rain started to fall, darkening all the windows grey. Brienne didn’t bother to light a candle when she entered her father’s chamber. He lay in bed, sleeping. She sat quietly beside him. He still looked so strong and so tall--and so peaceful. Brienne swallowed the bitterness she felt. 

“Why now?” she couldn’t help but whisper.

He heard her and stirred. His hand found hers and squeezed it weakly.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. He opened his eyes and gazed on her with deep sadness.

“What can I do?”

“There’s nothing that can be done.”

“And Tarth?”

He blinked. He knew what she meant.

“Tarth will pass peaceably to Estermont. There are arrangements...”

“No,” she said insistently. “Tarth can be ruled by your castellan until Jaime and I--when we have our second son--”

“Your first hasn’t been born,” he said, his voice croaking hoarsely. “And you will reside in the West, thousands of miles from here. A castellan cannot rule a land under such circumstances for so long a time.”

She knew it to be true. There was nothing she could do.

“This is all my fault,” Brienne said.

“It’s not your fault,” he said tenderly. “It is no one’s fault. It’s just the way things are.” He smiled sadly. “I’m just grateful I could see you one last time before you leave.”

The rain fell harder on the shutters. She sat wordless. Silence pooled between them.

“Brienne,” he said, squeezing her fingers again before withdrawing his hand. “I need rest.”

Like a ghost of herself she drifted back to her chamber. The numbness was deafening.

She opened the door. Jaime rose and gazed on her with a resigned sadness in his eyes. Brienne collapsed into his arms.

“I can’t,” she wept, repeating the words over and again. “I can’t go with you tomorrow to Casterly Rock, I just can’t. I have to stay here. I must. I must.”  
For hours, Jaime held her close, letting her weep and soak him with her tears. His silence and his touch were the best comfort he could give her.

A bleak and weary sleep finally took her. By the grace of the gods it was dreamless. But it seemed Brienne had only just closed her eyes when she opened them again to the grey early morning.

It was cold.

Brienne sat up. Jaime was gone, his side of the bed creased from where he lay. Her heart sank to her belly like a stone.

_He’s left me. He’s left for Casterly Rock._

The door creaked open and she held her breath. Jaime slipped through, holding a candle. The light glowed amber on his face and made him look a golden beacon amidst the shadows.

“You’ve come back?”

“I never left.” He took off his boots, put out the candle and climbed back into bed. “I’ve only just been to the rookery. Sent a raven to Jon, another to the Rock--I let them know we’ll be a while yet.”

“What if it’s a very long while?”

He kissed her, his lips brushing soft on her hair.

“Sleep more,” he said. “You need it.”


	22. Love's Tender Spring, P3 (EPILOGUE)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In order to decide what's best for his growing family, Jaime has to do some soul-searching and confront his fears.

-

Jaime

-

The market bustled with noise--chatter, clopping of horses, wheelbarrows, gull cries and shipyard work from the port. Jaime Lannister kept a brisk pace, trying to go unnoticed amongst the smallfolk of Tarth. His efforts were in vain.

_Over here, love! Some fresh pies!_

_It’s not pies he wants, it’s a new hand--come round to the smithy, he can fashion you a fearsome hook!_

Jaime smiled tightly, shaking his head no to the callers. He walked on.

A peach-fuzzed youth with a lyre in hand stepped in front of his path. “Care for a song, m’lord?” He started to play a very poor rendition of The Rains of Castamere.

Jaime recoiled inside a bit, but tossed the lad a few coppers. He moved on.

“Why, hello there handsome.” A woman in a tight corset sauntered by, pressing out her full bosom. “I see your wife’s not with you, m’lord. She too busy of late?”

Jaime turned the other way. It almost seemed that the people were conspiring to offer him only things he didn’t want. _Surely there’s something here that’s different._ He flicked his gaze to this stall and that, trying to catch sight of it--something wonderful, something that would beckon him in. Something that Brienne would like.

They had already extended their stay on the Sapphire Isle by a month. But the days widened with light as time galloped on, fierce and hard like a wild horse. _We cannot stay forever._ It was Jaime’s intention to find a gift for Brienne, something lovely to remind her of Tarth every time she looked at it.  But it was no use--all he saw was junk. The one thing she wanted was what he couldn't give her; a cure for her father.

Brienne had refused to give up on him, fighting the Evenstar’s illness as fiercely as she fought in the Great War. She had Maester Toby write to the Citadel again. More healers arrived from far-off lands. Tarth briefly hosted a red priestess from Asshai, but Lord Selwyn turned her away as soon as he saw her. _No witches,_ he said, even as his health declined.

When Brienne wasn’t tending to her father, she was tending to Evenfall. She had never expressed any ambition to lead, but once the weight of Tarth fell upon her shoulders she carried it admirably well. Her decisions were firm but fair, and she had a natural sense of which matters were immediately important and which ones could wait. Beyond that, it was clear to see she had the love and trust of her people. She was their lady of Evenfall, strong and unwavering as marble.

The only time she crumbled was at night, when she thought her husband was asleep. She would lay awake and weep silently, and Jaime’s heart would ache to know how she hid the suffering of her own. When he reached out for her, she gently pushed him away.

_“You should go ahead to the Rock, without me.”_

_“No. I’m not leaving you.”_

And yet he worried for her. She had her own health to look after, and that of their unborn child. He felt helpless, but tried to help in ways he could, handling trade and reconstruction between the Stormlands and Westerlands and coordinating the shipment of marble. That was his chief business in the port today.

He even offered to take on the position of master-at-arms for the time being--Sunyi Qin was also in great anguish and in need of rest. But the YiTish warrior found solace in her duties and refused to give them up.

 _The stubbornness of women will be the death of this world,_ Jaime thought.

He meandered on through the market. It was not so big as the market at King’s Landing, but the variety was impressive--eastern jewels he had never seen, spiced wine from further south he had never tasted. Still, nothing struck him as special enough. He almost lamented that his first gifts to Brienne had been Oathkeeper and a suit of armor--how would he ever manage to top that?

Just as he had given up, a shimmer caught his eye. He turned round and found himself in front of a small tented stall--one he hadn’t seen on the periphery of the market, there in the shadows. Great swaths of fabric hung from hooks. The cloth was lustrous, a type he had never seen before in all the colors between sunrise and moonset. He was drawn to a particular shade of blue--or was it silver? It reminded Jaime of the sea and of Brienne’s eyes. It gleamed like armor but was soft when he touched his hand to it.

“From the Summer Isles. You will never find anything like it in this world.”

His head jerked up. A thin and tawny woman sat at a sewing table, embroidering a fine dress. She didn’t even look at him as she spoke.

“You know your lady’s measurements?”

“Yes,” Jaime said. “I do.”

-

It was dusk by the time he returned to Evenfall, light glowing from the windows. _Lady Brienne is in the council chamber,_ the maester told him. Jaime made his way there and stood by the door, held his breath and listened.

_“My lady, your father worsens. Who will rule Evenfall when you and Lord Jaime leave?”_

_“I will name a castellan.”_

_“We are an island, vulnerable to pirates. With no named lord, the surrounding houses will bide their time until the isle is weakened enough to claim with little resistance and the people of Tarth will suffer for it...”_

A long pause followed.

_“There will come a cure for my father. I am certain of it.”_

And yet Jaime heard the wavering uncertainty in her voice. How he wanted to burst in through the door holding some magic potion in his one hand that would make everything better. But he had nothing.

He wandered up the steps of the east tower to the small room that he had cleared for his own work. By the window was his desk, littered with parchment. Jaime reluctantly sat at it and took a quill in hand.

He spent a lot of time awake himself, writing an obscene number of letters--mostly to the Rock. It wasn’t his preference to rule like this. Jaime had never liked writing at all, and now he had to suffer through it staring at his chicken scratch, even his signature resembling a child’s hand more than his own. He may have regained strength and broad facility with a sword, but never the fine precision required for penmanship.

The hours passed, and several candles spent. Outside in the darkness, birds began to warble their morning songs.

Jaime’s wrist seized up in a cramp. He grimaced and shook out his hand. A knock sounded at the door.

“Come in.”

Maester Toby entered, two scrolls clutched in his meaty fist.

“Good morning, my lord,” he said gruffly, holding out the missives. “Dorne, and Casterly Rock.”

Jaime took them. The husky robed man lingered, glancing nervously to the desk. At the sight of mess of inked parchment on the desk, he tucked his lower lip.

“Yes, Maester Toby?”

“My lord,” he said haltingly, “I thought it wise to inform you--there is only one raven this day at your disposal.”

Of late, Jaime and Brienne had both been writing letters as quickly as ravens beat their wings; this had flustered the maester somewhat and sent him muttering about needing a bigger rookery to meet demands. Yet Jaime looked helplessly to his drafts.

“There must be more than one raven--what about the two that just came back?”

“Joella needs rest, and Nevessa has a sprained foot.”

Jaime stared at him.

“Joella...and Nevessa?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“You name your birds?”

The maester frowned, insulted.

“Don’t you name your horses, my lord?”

Jaime did name his horses, indeed—but he never gave them flowery fairy names such as Joella and Nevessa. And yet the rookery was the maester’s domain. He had to respect that.

“Fair enough. I will burden your rookery with only one missive this morning.”

The maester thanked him and left. Jaime was alone with his scrolls. He first opened the one from Dorne--brief, but brooding:

_Lannister,_

_I’m sorrowed by the news of your last raven. Winter is past but for some of us it lingers on. The Westerlands can wait while you sort your affairs on Tarth; give my condolences to Lady Brienne._

_KING JON SNOW_

_P.S. - It may be all the same, but you should know: Tyrion is at Dragonstone..._

Jaime clenched his jaw and closed his eyes. It was no use. He could see Jon’s face loom up in front of him, hear the words muffled by a northerly accent and persistent scowl. Jaime had fought alongside that scowl, grave and stoic as a painted shield. But at the post scriptum--at the mention of Tyrion’s name--he saw Jon’s face soften and stare at him unblinkingly. Jaime couldn’t keep the stare, even in his own imaginings. He opened his eyes again.

_...Tyrion is at Dragonstone, only a week’s journey from Tarth. You could reconcile. It is your choice._

“You know nothing, Jon Snow,” Jaime muttered through gritted teeth. He crumpled the letter fiercely and threw it towards the burning hearth. It missed.

He opened the scroll that had come from his castellan at Casterly Rock. This letter was much longer--full of rambling requests and endless complaints, tedious questions and no answers. Jaime sighed deeply. The castellan was an idiot; that much was certain. _I should dismiss him and half the Rock for being so dimwitted._ But there was no one to replace them. Jaime knew he had to be there in the Westerlands to lead and make decisions properly--it couldn’t wait for him like this. A lord couldn’t rule from a thousand miles away, not this long in such tender times. Jaime rubbed his eyes. Gods knew it was never his preference to rule at all. But he was Tywin Lannister’s eldest son.

_Not his only son._

Jaime looked to the crumpled parchment by the hearth, as if it had spoken to him.

_It may be all the same, but you should know: Tyrion is at Dragonstone._

“Only a week’s journey from Tarth,” he replied, into the dimness.

_You could reconcile. It is your choice._

Jaime bowed his head and sighed again. He lifted his gaze to the flickering candleflame. It was brighter than before, and he caught sight of a different light through the window--dawn, creeping over the dusky horizon with proud Lannister colors of red and gold. The sea shimmered blue and silver under the lightening sky, reminding Jaime of the dress had commissioned for Brienne the previous afternoon. He had imagined her smiling in it, glowing bright as the moon against the majestic backdrop of Casterly Rock. Yet he had not seen her smile in many weeks. They had a child on the way, new life for House Lannister--but a part of Brienne was dying just as her father was. For House Tarth soon would be no more.

Jaime watched the sun rise full out of the water and clear the dusk. He took in a deep breath, cleared his mind. Then he picked up a fresh piece of parchment, wet his quill and scrawled.

_Dear brother._

-

The following week brought a westerly wind. It rushed hard with resolution, and Jaime woke one morning to its restless chill wisping down his back. He reached for Brienne. She wasn’t there beside him--she stood at the open window, dressed in a long white tunic that draped egg-like over the curve of her belly. It was the same she had worn yesterday. Likely she hadn’t been to bed at all. _Has she slept at all this past month?_

Jaime got up, went to her side and put his arm around her. She barely moved. He followed her frozen gaze, trained on the horizon. A large ship drew closer to Tarth’s port, the green sails accented by a sea turtle.

_Estermont._

“My father sent for him,” Brienne said quietly. “He wants me to concede Tarth now, to keep the peace and avoid civil unrest.” She sighed. “But it’s not time yet. I can’t help but feel that we’ll find a cure. We have to.”

With her last words she turned her gaze to him, a silent plea in her beautiful blue eyes. Of course Jaime wanted to agree, that a cure would come for her father. But he could not bring himself to lie to his wife. He held his arm around her a moment longer, then kissed her and went to put on his boots.

“I have some business to take care of this afternoon.”

“Business?” she repeated, the crease deepening between her brows.

“I’ll tell you later. I promise. Try and wait for me before you sign anything with Estermont. I want to be there for you.”

She still looked confused, but nodded.

Jaime kissed her again and left the stone keep. He saddled a horse to ride and made north for the forest. The sun had crawled up to its zenith, but the clouds muted the light. A fine drizzle misted his cheeks, and all around him the landscape looked like watered ink. Jaime enjoyed the many moods of Tarth. Casterly Rock had only two looks to it--fierce and golden in the beating sunlight, or gloomy monochrome beneath a cold sky. But Tarth was a palette of color and feeling.

Trees rose up all around him. The darkness of the forest swallowed him as the rain thickened. Finally, the yellow windows of a stone cottage came into view. Jaime slid off his mount and hobbled the horse outside. With his clothes clinging wetly he came to the old inn door and swung it open.

The plump innkeeper was wiping out cups at the bar. Her husband, a one-legged knight, sat by the fire and played with their children and a large, scruffy dog.

“Pissing it down out there, isn’t it?” Ser Goodwin asked.

Jaime’s eyes darted from one empty table to the next.

“He’s not here yet, love,” Hydda said.

“Here’s hoping he shows at all,” Jaime said, sliding into a booth. He accepted a horn of ale from the innkeeper and nursed it slowly. It was necessary to have his wits about him, as much he wanted to dull them.

An hour passed. He idled the time talking to Ser Goodwin of light matters and playing with the children. Even the eccentric singer Copper Tongue came down and started tuning up his ‘cello, and for a while the jigs and reels relaxed Jaime’s mind. But the day grew darker outside. Evenfall was not such a quick ride from the forest, and Brienne would wonder where he was and why he was taking so long to return on a day when she needed him most.

_The ship from Dragonstone should have arrived early this morning._

Perhaps he had been distracted by the whores in the port. Perhaps he had drunk himself so silly that he never even made it off the ship. Or perhaps he simply changed his mind. It wouldn’t be the first time that Tyrion Lannister disappointed his family.

Jaime’s irritation reached a boiling point. He stood with such sudden force, it startled the innkeeper and her tray of drinks. The dog licked up the spilled froth from the floor.

“Would you like another ale, m’lord?”

“No.” Jaime tossed a few gold coins on the table. “I’m sorry if you’ve turned away business for my sake,” he said bitterly. “This has been a wasted day, for all of us.”

Just as he reached the door, it swung wide open.

A dark wet thing waddled in, closer to the floor than to the low ceiling of the inn. Short boots stamped out mud glops in the entryway. Two stubby hands pulled back the soaked hood, revealing the squashed, scarred face of Tyrion Lannister.

_Imp._

_Kinslayer._

_Brother._

Jaime held his breath. Nothing happened for some time but for rain falling on windows. Tyrion stood stock still, his mismatched eyes trained upwards on Jaime.

“My apologies for this late arrival,” he said, cautiously. “My mule did not take a liking to the rain nor to me. I was bucked off before reaching the forest and left to my own devices.”

Tyrion spoke the words with as much dignity as he could muster, but he was covered in muck and resembled a wet rat in a cloak. Jaime looked down at the dirty water puddling beneath him.

“Well, say or do something brother,” Tyrion said. “Kiss me or kill me, or say I look terrible, at least.”

Jaime cleared his throat. “You look terrible.”

Tyrion blinked and flinched slightly.

“That’s hardly original. You look like you could use another drink yourself.”

Beneath the heavy shelf of brow his brother’s eyes sparkled. Jaime could not help but crack a small smile. So did Tyrion.

“Come. Let’s dry you off.”

He took off his boots and set them by the fire. Ser Goodwin brought him a blanket and plenty of wine, then followed his wife and children as they scuttled upstairs--leaving the Lannister brothers well alone.

“So what were you doing at Dragonstone?”

Tyrion looked to the fire.

“King Jon has sent me to lord over the Unsullied for the time being.”

Jaime frowned.

“But Grey Worm is Lord Commander of the Unsullied.”

“Yes, but I’m teaching him how to read and write in the common tongue.”

“He has Missandei.”

Tyrion sighed in resignation.

“All right, all right,” he said. “You have me. The real reason I left our good king was because I tired of looking at his brooding face, and he tired of looking at mine. Despite our deep mutual respect of one another, we simply aren’t a good pairing for hand and king. We seem to annoy each other.” He traced a ring of oak in the table. “Perhaps because we both miss Daenerys.”

He loved her, Jaime knew. Unrequited, but he had loved her.   _We all suffered heartbreak in the war._

Tyrion took a drink and set down his cup with weighty solemnity.

“I went to Dragonstone so I could read. A tremendous library spanning centuries, and no one to truly appreciate it but me. All that knowledge couldn’t go to waste. Most of it is in Valyrian, but I’m learning. The script is small and so ornamented it’s difficult to decipher it at all, even with knowledge of the language.” He looked up, his expression amused and pained at the same time. “You can imagine my relief at reading your letter for a change of pace. And my surprise, since you responded to none of mine.”

Tyrion had sent him at least three in the past year since Cersei’s death, desiring to meet and make amends.

“It wasn’t time yet,” Jaime said awkwardly. “I had to think.” He was still thinking, even as he was speaking. His head hurt from it. He wanted release.

“Thinking about whether you could put aside your hatred of me?” Tyrion spoke flippantly, but his face darkened.

"I don’t hate you. I never did.”

“Then why has it taken this long?”

“I was afraid of you.”

A silence followed. The fire crackled solemnly.

“Dear brother,” Tyrion whispered. “No matter what I’ve done--you never need fear that I would hurt you.”

“I know that,” Jaime said. “But after--” he swallowed, “After Cersei…I was afraid of what I would feel when I saw you.”

He tightened his hand around his horn of ale while he waited for the right words to come.

“Leaving her was my decision. Going north was my decision. Brienne is the best thing that ever happened to me--I love her more than life itself and I never wanted to go back to where I was, not in body or heart. I didn’t want to think about Cersei or even say her name again. Even now it tastes bitter to speak it. She deserved whatever fate she got, even death. But then I heard that it was you.” He saw Tyrion’s hands, balled into tight fists on the table. “If it had been by anyone else perhaps it would have been easier, but knowing it was you…”

His words drifted off. He stared into the fire. Tyrion sat silently and waited. 

“Most of all," Jaime continued, "I feared that I would see you and feel guilt about leaving her. That I would miss her. And worst of all—“ he felt his chest clench, heard his voice go hoarse—“that part of me would still want her.”

“Do you?” Tyrion asked quietly.

Jaime looked his brother in the eyes, searching him for truth. Searching himself.

“No,” he said. “Not anymore. If anything, I only wish things had been different. That we could have been a normal family.”

Tyrion heaved a bitter laugh.

“The time’s well past for that.”

“But perhaps it isn’t.”

Tyrion looked up at him in soft reverence. For a few moments, nothing happened at all but for the fire crackling and the rain falling outside.

“Perhaps we could be a family again,” Jaime said.

“You forgive me?”

“If you forgive me. I know I wasn’t always perfect myself.”

“I never wanted a perfect brother.”

“Neither did I.”

Tyrion smiled broadly. There were tears in his eyes and he blinked them back, reaching out his hand. Jaime took it and held it. He felt a stinging in his eyes as well.

“Well, I haven’t only brought you here so that we could drink and cry together,” Jaime said, withdrawing his hand. “I need your help.”

“Anything.”

“I need you to take the Rock.”

Tyrion blinked.

“Casterly Rock?”

“What other rock is there?”

“King Jon has already named you—“

“He can bloody well unname me,” Jaime said. “I’ve realized I don’t want it.”

Tyrion sat back, struck by the news.

“Gods. You’re doing this for Lady Brienne, aren’t you?”

Jaime had told him of the Evenstar’s illness in his letter; not much, but of course Tyrion caught the gravity of the situation.

“For her, yes--but also for myself and the realm at large; you’re better at ruling than I am. You have father’s political mind. I’ve often envied you that.”

Tyrion laughed hollowly. He poured himself another cup of wine.

“I’ve envied you so many things I can’t remember them all. I don’t remember what my life was when I wasn’t jealous of you. And yet--you realize you’re yielding your birthright to me? Are you certain?”

“I never even wanted it for myself. Not ever.”

“Not even after the war?”

“Not at all,” Jaime said, leaning back with a sigh. “I never fancied myself Lord of Casterly Rock.  No, my desires were far more selfish than all that. What I really wanted was for Brienne to be Lady of the Rock. I wanted her to be my Lady Lannister. I had hoped that somehow she would bring goodness to our family.”

His brother was stone silent. A small smile crept over his face.

“Goodness?” Tyrion repeated in a near whisper. _“Goodness?”_ He laughed, then laughed harder. “My dear, sweet brother. The day the Lannister name is associated with goodness is the day the lion grows bright green spots on his hide. Father is turning in his grave as we speak.” He frowned in contemplation. “Well. His metaphorical grave, considering...”

“Don’t,” Jaime warned.

“Right. Nevermind.” Tyrion leaned forward. The firelight flickered over his broad face, illuminating it golden. He looked leonine in this light. _In this light, he looks like father._

“You have redeemed yourself many times over in the war,” Tyrion said softly. “If it is a soiled family name that heavily upon your shoulders, it is more my burden than it is yours. Let me carry it.”

“You would do that?”

“Yes. I will do that. And gladly.”

Jaime smiled.

“I think I need another drink.”

Tyrion laughed heartily and agreed. He called for Hydda and more wine and ale, and they toasted to family and drank deeply.

“Come, let’s celebrate with a jaunty tune. Singer!”

Copper Tongue came rushing to the table, plaited hair sticking out from under his pointed hat and ‘cello slung over his back.

“Tell me good man--do you know the Rains of Castamere?”

The singer’s cheerful countenance darkened. He chewed his lip.

“I know it, mlord. But I do not like it nor play it, no.”

“Copper Tongue!” Hydda hissed. “You will play whatever with the man with the gold will have you play, whether you like it or no.”

Tyrion tossed a gold coin to the singer. “It’s quite all right, good innkeeper,” he said. “I like this man. He’s right, it is a ghastly tune--I never want to hear it again.”

“Outdated and overplayed in its day,” Jaime agreed.

The singer stared wide-eyed at the gold coins in his hand. He looked back up at the Lannister brothers with a goofy grin. “Copper Tongue can hope to call himself Golden Tongue one day! I with sing you the most beautiful songs, new songs, such wondrous songs--”

He swung his ‘cello round and started to play. The sweet and merry tune filled the room like sunlight. Jaime smiled.

“Doubtless there will be many new songs to come in this new age,” Tyrion said. “In my readings of thick tomes in High Valyrian, I have learned that the Targaryens endured their share of fallen kingdoms and shattered dreams. Do you know what they started with when they began again?”

Jaime shrugged. “No idea.”

“With family, of course.”

Tyrion took another drink. He smacked his lips thoughtfully.

“Of course, families don’t come from thin air. You and Lady Brienne are amongst the few breeding in the kingdom. The rest of us must needs catch up. Do you know what I envision?”

“Crude things, no doubt.”

Tyrion lifted his arms grandly, as if to paint the scene before them.

“A big ball hosted by Casterly Rock. I shall invite all the single lords and ladies of the realm and we will have we shall have a month-long holiday where we do nothing but dance, drink, and fuck.”

Jaime shook his head and smiled. His brother had barely changed at all, despite everything. They toasted again and were about to fill their cups once more, but Jaime caught sight of his own reflection in the glass of the window. It was dark it was in the diminishing light. He put his glass down.

“We’ll continue this celebration later. We must ride for Evenfall, and hurry.”

-

Brienne

-

She looked out the window of the council chamber. Birds fluttered and glided together, swooping high and low like shadows on the water. It was growing dark. Soon they would be visible no more.

Lord Eldon Estermont sat across the table from her, drumming his fingers on the table.

“I see no reason to wait for your husband, Lady Brienne. These are matters of Tarth, not Lannister. Well--soon to be Estermont matters.”

She glanced at the parchment in front of her--a deed for Tarth lands to fall to Estermont.

“Strange how things work out,” he said. “Long ago there was almost an arrangement for you and I to be married. You were thirteen? Fourteen? I can't remember. Young enough to protest my old age, that’s certain. But had our marriage gone through, we would have at least a few sons of Tarth name by now. Of course, that’s all no longer possible.” She saw his glance drift downward, and she laid a hand protectively over her swollen belly where his sight fell.  

And yet, even though she disliked this man, there was part of her that imagined how it could have been to have Tarth’s future secure in a marriage to him. Lord Selwyn had given his daughter the gift of freedom and her heart’s desire. In so doing he had also given away their family legacy. She didn't understand the weight of it as a child, but now she did. _He has given me everything, and I have given him nothing in return._

Lord Eldon sighed and leaned across the table, impatient. “If you prefer, this can be a messy affair. Upon your father’s death Tarth will be vulnerable. It will likely be ransacked by pirates, women and children raped by them. All the lords of southern isles will wait for that to pass until it is safe to send their fleets and claim the land under their banners. There will be war. Is that what you want?”

Brienne glared at him. But she knew he was right.

“No,” she said flatly. “We will sign now.”

Eldon nodded in satisfaction. The nib scratched hideously on the parchment as he signed his name, and Brienne closed her eyes. She opened them again as he handed the quill to her. With a shaking hand she touched the point to parchment.

The door swung open, hinges groaning. Jaime burst into the room, breathless and red of face.

“Don't sign a damned thing Brienne. Tear it apart. You’re not giving Tarth away.”

She dropped the quill and stood, startled and still.

Eldon Estermont laughed derisively. “It seems you’ve been in your cups, Lord Jaime.”

“Perhaps I have, but I’m as clear of mind as I’ve ever been. Tarth isn’t yours to rule, Lord Estermont. It is Brienne’s.”

Brienne still didn’t understand. A spark of hope had lighted within her, but she dared not believe it. She left the table, crossed the room to her husband.

“Jaime, what are you saying?”

“I’m saying that we’re staying.”

“But Casterly Rock--”

“--will be ruled by my brother.”

Brienne’s glance darted down. None but Tyrion Lannister stepped out from behind Jaime. He gave her the slightest of nods and a small smile.

“It’s good to see you, sister.”

She looked back to Jaime, speechless.

“You will be Evenstar, Brienne,” he said. “All our children will be Tarths.”

“But Jaime...what about you?”

“Me?” he said with a smile. “I will be happy.”

In his face she read the truth. He wanted this as much as she did.

Brienne’s heart overflowed with such warmth, she couldn’t contain it. She threw her arms around Jaime’s neck and pressed her lips full on his with such force, he stumbled back--but he steadied himself and held her close. 

_We are staying.  Tarth is home.  It will always be home._

-

The Lord of Estermont left in a resigned huff. Tyrion stayed on a few days to enjoy spring on the Sapphire Isle. But even though a cloud was lifted, Brienne’s heart still weighed heavy. Her father grew weaker.

“I wanted him to at least meet his grandchild,” she whispered, sitting by his bedside. “It doesn’t seem that will happen.”

Jaime found her hand and squeezed it gently. “We’ve done all we can.”

Tyrion was silent, lingering in the doorway.

“I’m not a maester,” he said slowly. “But I know people who know things about incurable diseases. I will write letters of my own and see what I can do.”

Brienne thought little of it. In her heart, she had already given up. _At least he will pass knowing that his legacy lives on._ But not a month after Tyrion left Tarth, a raven came with a scroll and a tiny box tied around its foot. Jaime quickly unfurled the scroll and read it aloud.

_Dear brother and sister,_

_On my way to the Rock I made a visit to Hornhill. Lord Samwell Tarly is well with his wife and four children, yes four; Lady Gilly has safely given birth to triplets!_

_Many know of Lord Samwell’s kindness and his bravery, his vast knowledge on many subjects. Few know of his magic touch when it comes to medicine. He is something of a wizard in that regard. I wrote to him of the Evenstar’s sickness ahead of time, and he brewed this potion._

_It may or may not help Lord Selwyn Tarth but if it does...perhaps it is also in part to the healing of House Lannister._

_I hope it is not too late._

_TYRION_

Brienne fumbled to open the accompanying box. Inside was a small glass bottle with liquid of sapphire blue.

-

Selwyn

-

Day by day, his strength returned to him.

By the time three months had passed, Selwyn could stand on his own again. All of Evenfall rejoiced for his recovery--especially Brienne and Sunyi who both wept--and very soon, there was even more reason for celebration: Brienne gave birth to a healthy baby boy. _Duncan Tarth._ He had golden curls and blue-green eyes, and the whole castle fussed over him. Jaime doted on his son, a proud smile lighting his face every time he held the infant. Brienne sang lullabies to him, and it was the first Selwyn had ever heard what a sweet and true singing voice his daughter had.

It wasn’t long before gifts came flooding in from all over the kingdom. Among them was a tiny blanket finely embroidered with a weirwood tree, sewn by none other than Lady Sansa Stark.

Selwyn frowned at the flamed leaves, the face carved on the trunk of tree.

“Quite a Northern gift.”

“Well--we were married in the godswood after all,” Jaime said.

Brienne hissed at him. Too late.

Selwyn cleared his throat.

“In the _godswood_?”

“Yes, of course. In front of a heart tree.”

“We were in the North, father--”

“And now you are in the South,” Selwyn said. “I wish to see you married at a sept. The Tarth sept.”

Sunyi tucked her chin, hiding her small smile as she rocked the child in her arms. Brienne looked to her small son and back to her father.

“Father, don’t be ridiculous. We already have a baby--”

“It’s not ridiculous in the slightest,” Jaime countered. “Your father never got to see us marry the first time.”

Brienne gave him a pained look.

“I don’t have a dress!”

“Oh yes, you do,” Jaime said, a sparkle in his eyes.

-

Not a week later, the Sept of Tarth was strung with white and purple flowers. Water from the nearby stream bubbled merrily and so did the laughter of guests from all over the isle. Brienne simply glowed in a dress that shimmered silver as a sword and blue like wavelets on the sea. Jaime had it made for her, somehow knowing exactly what would suit her. They kissed after they said the words with joined hands in front of the septon, and the groom gazed on his bride in adoration. Even in her beautiful dress, it was Brienne’s smile that became her best of all that day--like gold became the sun.

Selwyn held his infant grandson in his arms as he watched the ceremony. He drew in a breath of pride. His daughter had changed, and yet she was still the same--tall and strong as he had always known her, but now soft and motherly. And beautiful.

Sunyi leaned to him.

“Are you happy now, to see her married by your new gods?”

He smiled down at her, this fierce warrior of YiTi, this woman whom he had come to love so dearly.

“Old gods or new--I’m only happy it took minimal convincing for them to marry again so I could see it.”

Sunyi smiled back at him, curling her small hand in the crook of his arm.

“I’m happy, too.”

Selwyn bent to kiss her. The warm bundle stirred in his arms, and he adjusted baby Dunk’s blanket. Who would have ever thought he would live to love again, or to hold his grandchild? It had seemed unlikely at so many times. And yet he marveled at how life unfolded, changing and beginning again in new and unexpected ways. Like petals of a rose, there were many lives nestled within one.

-

Together, Brienne and Jaime had six children--three boys and three girls. Duncan was the responsible one, steadfast and kind. Lann was clever and genial, perceptive with a keen eye and restless spirit. Joanne and Rohanna were identical in appearance with their strawberry blond hair, freckles and green eyes--and yet they were different as the sun and the moon. Joanne was soft and sweet, laughed delicately and was always a perfect lady. Rohanna was forever scraping her knees, tearing dresses and coming home to dinner with smudges on her face after riding all day. Morna was plain and shy, the tallest of the girls. She loved music and poetry, and she had a special way with animals. Little Galladon was the sweetest of the Tarth children--a curious boy with long blonde eyelashes and big dreams.

Brienne mothered them with a gentle heart and ruled Tarth with a fair hand--the first lady Evenstar in her own right. Jaime shouldered his wife’s duties, but found the most contentment in fatherhood--loving his sons and daughters, teaching them how to fight and make amends. And Selwyn lived to see all his grandchildren grow through the change of seasons. Even after the dark times, there was new growth in all of Westeros the way that delicate flowers sprang from between the rocks. Life was full of possibility again. And even when summer waned to autumn and winter came again--in moments when all seemed lost and shadow swallowed light--the sun would rise once more.

So it was for the rest of days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, I can't believe this story is done. I hope you liked the little GoT "easter eggs" in this last chapter and the rando Tyrion cameo. That was fun to write. 
> 
> I know I sacrificed Selwyn's health and sanity way too many times for the sake of metaphor, and hopefully that wasn't too tiresome. Poor guy! 
> 
> I am so grateful for all of you who have loved this tale and commented so faithfully--Isisbalamia, DasFeministMermaid, and especially Sh_tem who leaves the longest, most luscious reviews a fanfic writer could ever hope for. (Seriously, I would have stopped writing this long ago had it not been for your encouragement. I'm so glad I continued. Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU from the bottom of my heart.)
> 
> If you have any favorite characters/chapters/moments, please share them with me! I hope you've loved reading this story as much as I have enjoyed writing. It will be hard to let go--but it's time.
> 
> I have some other fic ideas in mind, but for now I'm taking a small break for some headspace. Lots of love to all of you.


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